A City of Fortune and Failure
by justadram
Summary: Amidst maneuvers and intrigue, heartbreak and betrayal, bankruptcy and political scandal, the players jockey for power, money, and prestige in a game of business, politics, and love in New York City. Modern AU. Multi-ship. Central ships: Ned/Cat, Cersei/Jaime, Dany/Jorah, Jon/Sansa
1. Prologue

**Notes**: This is a modern AU of ASOIAF. If you are a fan of the show and have not yet read the books, there will be _some_ spoilers for the series. The intention is to include every great house if not every character from the series. This fic will unfold not only in the traditional format but also by utilizing social media. While it is not necessary to follow the social media component of this fic, plotlines will be fleshed out using tumblr, providing hints for future developments and encouraging interaction with the characters between updates. Feel free to follow and bug (nicely, please) the characters, as they are introduced.

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Prologue

Robb jogs towards the helicopter, his boots pounding the hard, dusty ground beneath his feet. The noise of its four blades and twin engines is thunderous, a high pitched whine and patter that makes it impossible to understand what Private Torrhen is shouting at him. Robb signals with his hand that he can't hear and Torrhen shrugs without pause in their dash to join their squad in the aircraft for transport to Kandahar Airfield. Robb puts his head down to avoid the downdraft that batters at their bodies until his hands are wrapped around the open door and he's pulled inside by Sergeant Jon.

They call him Great Jon, not only because he's their squad leader, the oldest among them, and massive even for a well built Marine, but also to distinguish between Small Jon, team leader of Robb's fireteam. Torrhen ducks in behind him and they take their seats between Private Daryn and Private Halys, his team's rifleman and assistant automatic rifleman. Both their eyes are closed, ready for liftoff.

Torrhen elbows him and shows him a torn packet of Skittles, no doubt saved from his last MRE, wordlessly offering him some. Robb holds out his hand and Torrhen gives it a shake, dumping half a dozen into his hand. Robb tosses them back with a nod. Skittles, unlike M&M's, melt in your hand before they ever melt in your mouth, leaving a rainbow smear of stickiness behind, and it's a scorcher, pushing 100 degrees, hot enough to make sweat roll down the back of his neck into his desert digi-cammies, but the candy isn't unappreciated. Torrhen's a good guy. In fact, there isn't a Marine in this copter he wouldn't trust with his life.

He can't help thinking that if Jon had been with him, if Jon hadn't insisted on enlisting in the Army and they'd both signed up for the Marines instead, things would be different for his brother. Not that Jon would have been safer—Marines are tough, but not indestructible—but maybe he wouldn't be at home, sleeping in a darkened basement. When Robb's with his squad they've got running jokes and stories and stupid bullshit, which helps keeps them sane. Jon's always been too damn serious. Maybe no one knew how to respond to his moods. Robb would have made Jon laugh just to keep him from cracking up. From Jon's e-mails, it sounds like he could use some of that sanity now.

Their father was a Marine like his father before him. They were raised on stories of Grandpa Stark, a tough guy who'd stormed the beaches in the second wave to land on Iwo Jima. Jon by all rights should have been a Marine, but he followed Uncle Ben's example, going Army.

_It's hard for him, Robb_, his father had reminded him not for the first time, when Jon announced his decision. _He feels like he has to cut his own path_.

Because Ned Stark isn't technically Jon's father and this kind of follow in your father's path crap reminds Jon of that unpleasant fact, but Robb thought that was bullshit. All Jon knew about his real father was that they shared a last name—Snow—and Robb's father had been there for him ever since Jon's mom died in 2000. Robb could hardly remember what it was like before Jon Snow had come to live with them and become his brother. He always thought Jon should just legally change his name, be a Stark in name and not just in practice. He was already in all the staged family photos the AP photographers put together and was dragged around on campaign to be trotted up on stage during the summer, when they should have been out drinking and feeling up girls. There was all the expectation of duty to one's country and morally upright behavior heaped upon him. Might as well wear the family name too.

But there are those persistent reminders that Jon's not Robb's brother in the ways that count to some people—like his name and his former rank as Specialist Jon Snow of the U.S. Army. Jon served for over two years and he liked serving as much as anyone can like being sent to Afghanistan. Until it all changed for Jon four months ago, when his squad was lost. Robb doesn't know what would happen to him if something took his squad out; you can't really afford to think about something like that. But, there's no way he'd have to go through it alone. Where were Jon's brothers in arms, when he was falling apart after the attack? When he lost his girl and his buddies all in one roadside bombing?

Dacey grins up at him as she straps herself in with a click he still can't hear. He can see in her face what he's feeling right now, what they're all probably thinking, as the helicopter lifts off the ground, rocking and floating up with a forceful downdraft.

Almost there.

He's one step closer to eating something that tastes more like home. Something other than the chili with beans and rice MRE's he's been ingesting for the past five days. The thought of a giant soda and a greasy slice of Pizza Hut pepperoni pizza is enough to make his mouth water. He's one step closer to a computer too, where he can Skype with Jeyne and send Jon an e-mail with the filthy joke Ed Karstark told him. He also needs to send what will probably end up being a belated Mother's Day message to Mom. Something to tell her she's made him the man he is today, someone he hopes makes her proud.

…

WASHINGTON – The cause of a helicopter crash on Sunday that killed eight U.S. troops and three Afghans remains unclear, although the Black Hawk helicopter went down in a region infested with Taliban insurgents, according to NATO.

The crash took place in Shah Wali Kot, located in the Kandahar province, which makes up the heartland for Taliban insurgency. The Black Hawk, a workhorse aircraft for transporting both troops and gear, burned after the crash. One Afghan survived.

U.S. troops rely on the Black Hawks in Afghanistan to traverse rugged terrain that would otherwise have them facing broad deserts and roads planted with bombs. Helicopter pilots fly some 50,000 missions a year.

The causes for helicopter crashes are numerous. Insurgents shoot them down, but they can also be the result of mechanical problems, weather, and human error.

Sunday's crash was the highest death toll for U.S. troops in a helicopter crash since Aug. 16, 2012, when 7 U.S. troops died in a Black Hawk helicopter crash.

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Want to follow Sansa Stark's tumblr (username makepinklemonade)?


	2. Chapter 1: Jon

**Summary**: If they have to bury Robb, it should be in winter with a heavy snow on the ground. Something should register that Jon's brother burned up in a helicopter crash beyond their collection of dour faces.

**Notes**: Thank you for all the initial interest in this fic! Your comments, follows, favs, and kudos are much appreciated.

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Chapter Two: Jon

Jon grips the black, hard plastic handles on Bran's chair too tight, till his knuckles turn white, while pushing his little brother over the uneven turf of Wolfswood Cemetery, the cemetery where several generations of Starks have been buried in north western Michigan. It's where he would rest too if it had been him and not Ygritte and the rest of his squad that died in action, if it had been him and not Robb. Even though he's not a Stark, he knows Ned would have buried him here beneath a shiny headstone.

Jon glances around. This must be what people mean when they say a cemetery is peaceful. It's a peaceful enough place, even downright beautiful, though he feels anything but at peace. There's something off about burying his brother on this picturesque, spring day with the redbud and crabapple trees blooming between the graves and rows upon rows of sunny faced daffodils and bright tulips lining the paths. The smell of lilacs is so strong that Jon thinks he might hereafter always associate it with death, the way he associates sand with blood. If they have to bury Robb, it should be in winter with a heavy snow on the ground. Something should register that his brother burned up in a helicopter crash beyond their collection of dour faces.

They approach the freshly dug, neatly squared grave over which Robb's flag draped coffin is perched, and he wheels Bran around next to Cat, kicking the lock in place. Cat's been helped into her seat by her husband, while she struggles to hold a squirming six year old in her lap. Rickon's getting a little big to be held in his mother's lap comfortably, but he suspects Cat's afraid he'll dash out in the middle of service if she lets him go. 'High-spirited' is the term they've been encouraged to use in regards to his youngest brother's behavior, but as high-spirited as any of the other Stark kids had been, none of them had been quite like Rickon.

Jon squats down, though he can feel Cat's eyes on him, when he grips Bran's knobby knees, and whispers to his little brother, whose face is deathly pale, "Remember what I said."

Bran nods solemnly at Jon's reminder.

_You're going to want to look away, but Robb deserves our attention even if it hurts to give it_.

_Will Robb know we're there?_

Jon assured Bran that he would, though he's not sure about that. There's only one thing he knows for certain. _Your dad will be really proud of you._

It's a reminder for himself as much as it is for the nine year old, because he feels the tension twisting his stomach, urging him to turn his back and march as quickly as his legs can carry him to the cool dark of the black limo that brought them here, winding through the lush cemetery behind the hearse. There will be photographers present and it would sell newspapers to have little red haired Bran Stark in his wheelchair with his eyes screwed shut tight at his brother's funeral. Sell even more to have Jon Snow, former U.S. soldier, storming off.

There's a certain Stark stalwartness, a surety in the face of crisis that the great people of New York have come to expect. Ned has set the example for them all and now they all have a duty to rise to those expectations.

When Jon straightens up, he hesitates for a moment, rubs his sweaty hands over his black wool slacks, and shoves them in his pockets to jangle keys that aren't there. He's unsure where he's supposed to fit into this family scene with the Starks all lined up on white, wooden folding chairs, looking like professional mourners in their best, somber black attire and rows upon rows of extended family and friends here to grieve with them.

He scans the crowd, trying not to assess them for potential threats the way he would a gathered crowd in Afghanistan. His VA counselor says those are old patterns that he needs to try his best to break and make new patterns to replace them.

Instead, he tries mostly unsuccessfully to place all the faces. There are dark haired, grey eyed Starks and red headed Tullys in the crowd, both sides of Ned and Cat's family with names he can't quite dredge up, and there are politicians—too many of them—in their crisp suits and smoothly combed hair. They're the people that owe Senator Stark something or hope to gain something by being here today. Maybe some of them are truly friends of his father like the Baratheons. The Baratheons are hard to miss, seated alongside the Lannisters, creating a wall of blond punctuated only by Robert's dark hair and hulking form.

The man's sweating, dabbing at his forehead with a white handkerchief, though the day isn't too warm. He looks like a bearded toad. Jon's not particularly fond of any member of that family, but he's been forced to deal with them ever since he moved into the Stark townhouse on the Upper East Side a couple of months before his first year of high school, when his mother died and Ned took him in. It's a lengthy friendship between the New York senator, born not far from this cemetery, and the powerful owner of Baratheon Industries. Robert was Ned's roommate in college and they belonged to the same fraternity. It was Robert who encouraged Ned to move his young family to New York, to enter politics in a much bigger pond. Robb is named after him, a tribute to their friendship.

Robb _was_ named after him.

Robert is married to Cersei Lannister. It's how two of the most powerful families in New York came to be in each other's pockets. Anyone else might find it a little awkward that Cersei's former husband, the father of two of her children, sits alongside her today, but that's the usual arrangement for them with Jaime Lannister never far from Cersei's side.

Jon stares at Joffrey, the eldest Lannister kid, who is messing with his iPhone, for long enough that the guy finally looks up and notices Jon's empty gaze. He has the nerve to glare back at him.

The seat next to Sansa is empty. Joffrey's her boyfriend, and Jon knows he would have sat next to Ygritte if it had been her brother that died. Part of Jon wants to push through the crowd and drag Joffrey by his collar up to sit where he belongs. _The little shit_. But no one would appreciate the scene it would cause. Anyway, the greater part is glad Joffrey's nowhere near them.

Robb was convinced Joffrey would ask Sansa to marry him, once he graduated this May. Maybe he already has. They'll never be rid of him then. At least he'll belong—son in law of Ned Stark. Jon's just some interloper with his hands buried in his pockets. Lyanna's kid, who isn't even rightly Ned's stepson.

But Arya sticks out a hand, palm up: someone needs him. He gratefully takes it, letting his little sister tug him down in between herself and Sansa, who sits with sunglasses as dark and wide as her mother's. They make it impossible to see if either woman is crying. He could use a pair like that, as he blinks back the tears that keep stinging his eyes every time he accidently catches sight of the flag over Robb's coffin.

Swaying slightly, he manages to bump into Sansa's shoulder, jostling her, as he sits, but she remains otherwise impassive. He mumbles an apology and her head tilts in acknowledgement of his fumbling attempts to ask for her forgiveness just enough to send a cascade of dark hair sliding over her shoulder. Too dark. It's not her usual Irish red. He should have noticed that detail, when she flew in from college and emerged out of a yellow taxi, after Robb's crash, after she'd been called home in the midst of her finals, but he doesn't remember a whole hell of a lot from those days.

She must have dyed it, although he doesn't know why she'd obliterate something so uniquely beautiful. Ygritte always said her own fiery red hair was lucky. Except obviously it wasn't lucky enough. Still pretty though, even as they yanked her helmet off of her as she died. For a second he sees her, bleeding out in front of him—red hair and red, red blood—and he has to count slowly back from ten, while he yanks at the white cuffs of his shirt and breathes too quick.

That was months ago. He's here. There's no screams. No medic with hands slicked with blood. Just Sansa and his sister sitting on either side of him.

He exhales slowly.

Maybe she had to dye it for a photo shoot. It looks like half the women in the crowd—a nondescript brown—and he finds himself staring at it, the way a thick, shiny curl is stuck in the white lace of her Peter Pan collar. It shouldn't be important what color her hair is, but it strikes him as intrinsically wrong and he can't stop gawking until Arya jabs him in the thigh and he manages to tear his eyes away.

"Are you gonna be okay when they do the volley?" she whispers. "You're not gonna flip?"

Arya knows about his PTSD. She gets him. She got him before he was broken and she gets him now. Even though she's half his age and he remembers the day she was born and how she fussed whenever someone held her and her skinny little legs weren't crawling, churning up the floor. With Cat busy with her charities, Ned away in D.C., Sansa at school, and the boys in Osha's care, when Jon came home and was at his worst, it was Arya who saw it. She knows how he can get and knows something about what can set him off. She dropped a glass in the kitchen once, it shattered with a pop, and things got really black, really quick. It would have scared a kid, who wasn't as tough as Arya, but she's got real grit. Enough to dress totally differently from every other girl at her school, enough to wear her dark hair as short as a boy's, enough to be unapologetically herself. Jon's not so old that he can't remember the cost of making yourself that different at thirteen, and Arya must pay it every day.

Cat's a good enough mother to let Arya be who she is—even if that means wearing black pants and scuffed black boots instead of a dress today, a blouse being the only compromise required in Arya's usual getup. His little sister is nothing like the polished young woman Sansa's become, but Cat treats all of her children as if they're special in their own right. Of course, Cat never much warmed to Jon. Hard enough to take, when your mom is dead, but understandable, considering how out of place he is in her family, but he'd never say she wasn't good to her kids.

Cat explained to them in the limo what exactly the funeral would entail. A pastor to say a few words, the coffin, an honor guard, a rifle party to give the three volley salute, and because this is Ned Stark's son, fighter jets in missing man formation. She spoke with such calm, preparing the younger ones for the things they might find upsetting, though Jon could see from the tightness of her jaw that she was hanging onto her composure by the skin of her teeth.

Jon didn't need the run down: he knew by rote what was in store for them today. This wasn't his first military funeral. He'd been to more than he'd like. Not Ygritte's though. He hadn't been discharged and sent home in time for that, had still be cracking up in Afghanistan and recovering from his own wounds.

Ned asked him if he wanted to wear his dress uniform for the funeral like the young Marines who stand by as honor guards. That was a decided no.

_It was an honorable discharge, son_, Ned reminded him.

At first that had meant something to Jon—_honorable_ discharge—because if something about him was slightly dishonorable that would reflect poorly on the man he considered his father and to whom he owed so much. But the honorable part was a fake, a joke, something he hadn't earned. They'd only classified him as an honorable discharge because Ned's a senator and a veteran. Not just some paper pushing vet either, but a hero of the Gulf War. That counted for something with the U.S. Army. No one wanted that tarnished by a bastard kid Ned was kind enough to give a home to.

Besides, Jon thinks he might have had what his counselor euphemistically refers to as an 'episode' if he'd put the damn thing on.

"I'm going to have to be okay, aren't I? Can't go loony toons today," he says with a grimace. "_You_ going to be okay?"

Arya squints back at him and sniffs slightly, giving him a terse little nod. "I'll show them. I'm gonna be just like him. I'm gonna sign up as soon as I'm old enough."

Jon dips his head lower. "Don't let your mother hear you say that." That's the last thing Catelyn needs to worry about.

"I _am_," Arya insists, her lower lip sticking out.

Sansa leans across him, covering the multitude of rubber bands on Arya's wrist with a shaking hand. "Shut up. I don't ever want to hear you say that again."

She says it low enough that Jon doesn't think anyone else's heard and she wears a careful face that doesn't betray the harsh tone of her voice, but Arya jerks her hand away roughly enough that someone might notice that something's amiss amongst the Stark kids.

He turns to Sansa, her name on his lips, although he doesn't know what he means to say. To comfort her? To tell her to let Arya be? To apologize for being the one to sit next to her, while her boyfriend sits three rows back? He and Sansa have never been close and there's no natural ease between them, but before he can speak, she slips her hand into his and draws it into her lap, squeezing harder than he thought her graceful fingers could manage. He spends the first ten minutes of the service stiffly waiting to see if she'll let go and when the jets roar overhead, he prays she won't.

She doesn't.

As the last line of _Taps_ echoes from across the cemetery, Sansa stands, forcing him to his feet as well. At least someone is with it enough to follow protocol, because for him, everything feels like he's seeing it through water, blurred and slow. It's the feeling of being separated, not engaged with the world around him that's moving at half speed. His counselor says it's disassociation, a coping mechanism he might be developing to deal with the anxiety to prevent himself from slipping into a full blown episode. It's okay for now, but he needs to work at finding healthier coping methods.

It turns out that his counselor seems to think that feeling crazy should be a lot of work.

The honor guard has folded the flag, the empty shell cases have been slipped inside, and the highest ranking officer holds it out, saying words that Jon can't seem to hear, as the officer presents it to Ned, Robb's next of kin. He salutes and the crowd around them starts to shift, drifting away or moving forward to speak with the family, as befits their level of intimacy with the Starks.

He feels a tug at his hand, as the Baratheons and Lannisters swarm them with outstretched hands and fixed, oddly attractive frowns. All except for Joffrey, who stands back, looking perfectly groomed and bored, as he runs his finger over his iPhone.

The tug is Sansa letting go. Jon releases her hand, as Cersei slips her arm around the younger woman's narrow shoulders, pulling her in for a hug.

"If there's anything we can do, sweetheart," the woman says, but of course there isn't. "You know we'll be there for you."

There isn't anything anyone can do, because Robb is dead. Robb will never again make Sansa blush with his teasing. Arya will never play catch with him. Bran and Robb will never trade knock-knock jokes. Rickon never run screaming from Robb's monster growl. Jon wasn't there at his side to protect him and he's never going to see his brother again.

He's relieved that Cersei skips over him with a half smile to pat Arya on the head. She's lucky Arya doesn't growl back at her before her blonde head swivels and her attention lights upon Joffrey.

He's a little prick and none of the rest of this crew is much better. A spike of anger jabs Jon right square in the chest and he knows he has to get away before he says or does something embarrassing. Muttering his excuses to no one in particular, since no one is paying him much mind, he places his hand on Sansa's back, trying to slip behind her to make his escape.

"Joff, honey?" Cersei calls to her son, and Sansa twists, blindly groping for Jon's hand, her fingers knotting with his.

"Don't let go," she implores, looking back at him with wide blue eyes. Tully blue, like Robb's.

He can't say no, Robb wouldn't want him to say no. "I was going back to the limo."

"Good. Take me with you," she says with a relieved huff, reaching down for her black clutch.

"Daddy," she says with a touch to her father's elbow. "Jon is taking me back to the car."

"Can I come?" Arya asks, pulling at Jon's coat sleeve, and he can tell from the quiver in her voice that she's about to lose her fight with her unspilt tears.

Arya wouldn't want anyone to see her cry. He's ready to argue Arya's case, but he's spared the effort.

"Take your sister with you," Ned says and it's all the approval they need.

The three of them hurry away, wending their way through straggling mourners that Sansa refuses to stop for, as they walk across the thick, spring grass, approaching the limo that will carry them away from this scene, as soon as Ned and his wife are allowed to put an end to the formalities and escape back to their home on the cold waters of the lake. Maybe he and Arya will sit on the swing. Maybe he'll chop wood. Anything will be better than this crowd of well wishers.

Sansa's not usually so abrupt in dealing with people, but he's not himself either—hasn't been for a while now—so he understands her rush to avoid all the puckered faces and extended hands, until they're at the limo and Jon pulls on the latch, opening the door. Sansa let's go of his hand to lean against the car, her lip caught between her teeth, as Arya scrambles in first.

"Thank you," Sansa sighs. He frowns, and she nods towards the people they've outpaced behind him. "For back there."

"It was awful." There aren't really words for how awful. How shitty this whole thing really is.

"You rescued me," she says, reaching down to pull one black heel and then the other off. She's instantly four inches shorter, but still not much shorter than him. How did she manage in those towering heels, walking across the grass? Ygritte would have lasted five minutes in those heels and Sansa navigated a cemetery in them. She holds them in her left hand, letting them dangle from her fingers, and Jon stares down at her pink toes painted rusty red, curled into the grass.

"Hardly."

"Well, that's the way I'm going to remember it. But we should have grabbed Bran and Rickon." She points her toe in the grass and then flexes it. "I couldn't think back there, but that was stupid. I should go back and get them."

She's right. "I'll go."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah," he says, jerking his thumb towards the gravesite. "It's hard to push Bran's chair through this grass."

He scrubs his face, preparing himself to reenter the fray, but before he can turn, she reaches up to grasp his shoulder. "I'm glad you're here. Robb can't be," she says on a bubbled up laugh that sounds like she's teetering on the edge of a sob. "Can he? He can't ever be here again."

"No."

She pulls him towards her, pulls him into a hug he's not expecting and his hand flattens against the limo's window to prevent himself from crashing into her. She smells like perfume and floral shampoo. There have been a lot of hugs today, but none for him. He clears his throat, surprised at the feeling that wells up in his chest, threatening to choke him, when he lets his arm wrap around her narrow back.

Her nose bumps his collar, as she whispers, "If he can't be here, it's good that you are. He liked you best out of all of us."

It could very well be a snide remark born of jealousy and anger, and Jon suddenly fears that this hug, this extension of warmth between himself and Robb's sister, is merely so much bullshit like the Lannisters and Baratheons and their empty condolences, but then she presses a kiss to his neck, half of it on the stiffly starched collar of his shirt and he _knows_. Sansa may be practiced and perfect, but she's also a genuinely sweet girl. She means it. She wants him to be comforted by the thought that there was someone in this world that loved him best.

But then, Robb's gone, same as his mother and Ygritte.

He wants to tell her that Robb loved her fiercely. That he talked about rearranging Joff's face just because he knew the unbearable little shit wasn't good enough for her. He wants to tell her that Robb loved them all.

But Jon's not good with words. So he turns his feet back towards the crowd to bring Sansa's remaining brothers back to her. He can do that much for her.

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**Notes**: Follow me on tumblr (username justadram) for teasers. Don't forget Sansa's tumblr (makepinklemonade).


	3. Chapter 2: Tyrion

**Summary**: He's not unique in feeling this way, but funerals are one of Tyrion's least favorite affairs, unless it's a wake with plenty of booze, which this wasn't. He knew exactly what kind of funeral this would be. It was only out of respect for the Starks that he made the trip out here. Now he's ready to forget.

**Chapter Notes**: Some Lannister snark for this chapter. Thanks for all the kudos and comments. They're food for the soul.

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Chapter Two: Tyrion

His brother tucks away his cell phone, leaning to the side to slide it into the pocket of his expensive wool slacks, as Tyrion motions for the waitress, who is making her way through the black leather chairs in the lobby of the Barrowlands Hotel, where he and Jaime have been drinking since the conclusion of the Stark boy's funeral.

"What can I get for you gentlemen?"

In New York, an upscale hotel like this would have the waitresses dressed in something a little more chic than the ill fitting black polo and khakis this girl's sporting. But this isn't New York. This is almost as far from New York as you can get, which is probably why the Starks, born and raised in this wholesome environment, are such strange, foreignly honest creatures in the city.

"Two more of these, please," Tyrion says, rattling his empty glass of whiskey.

"On the rocks?" the girl inquires, her eyes nervously darting over him, as if she doesn't know where to look.

His being a little person probably makes her uncomfortable. It often makes people afraid to really look at him, as if he might mistake it for gawking. It's almost worse than the stares of ignorant people to have people who don't want to give offense carefully staring above his head somewhere.

It's not his job to put her at ease, but he smiles at her. She's a pretty girl even without the right clothes.

"And a glass of red wine," Jaime adds.

She paws at the black pocketed apron tied around her hips but comes up empty. "Sorry, I thought I had… Do you want me to bring the wine list?"

Jaime runs his hand through his hair, as he considers for a moment. "No, just bring me whatever you have that doesn't taste like shit."

His brother's smile and wink undoes whatever offense he might have otherwise caused—a benefit of having reaped the best of what the Lannister genetics had to offer. Tyrion is often coarse and careless with his words too, but no one is as forgiving about it. At least no one will ever be able to say Tyrion Lannister has traded on his good looks.

She titters, looking flustered by his brother's meaningless attentions. "I'll be right back with those drinks."

Tyrion waggles his finger at his brother. "Careful, Jaime." He stops to tease whatever whiskey might still be left melting amongst the ice onto his tongue. It's a fruitless attempt, which only succeeds in getting ice to bump his lips. "I don't believe these good Midwestern folk use such godless language. I've never heard Ned Stark so much as say damn."

"She didn't seem to mind. Anyway, feel free to tip well to apologize for the manners of this unrepentant heathen," Jaime says, as he leans forward to deposit his empty glass on the low metal coffee table that sits between them. "Regardless, this next drink is the last one."

Tyrion slides his empty glass onto the table to join his brother's. "For you maybe. I intend on getting good and drunk."

He's not unique in feeling this way, but funerals are one of Tyrion's least favorite affairs, unless it's a wake with plenty of booze, which this wasn't. He knew exactly what kind of funeral this would be. It was only out of respect for the Starks that he made the trip out here. Now he's ready to forget.

Although he's only just put it away, Jaime pulls his phone partially out of his pocket again, checking for something. By the line that forms between his brows, he looks as if he's been disappointed.

He clears his throat, his gaze cutting back up at Tyrion. "Yes, the last for me."

"You're abandoning me to drink alone?"

"That I am," Jaime says, as he lets the phone slip back into his pocket.

"Plans?" Tyrion inquires. "In beautiful White Harbor?"

There's little to do here but eat fudge and ice cream or rent a touring bike, as far as Tyrion can tell. It's not exactly a bustling metropolis. Tyrion's not sure what Joffrey and Myrcella are doing to entertain themselves, but this isn't a town with much to offer the young or those who like to _think_ they are young like Jaime.

"God, no."

"Good. Leaves me free pick of the White Harbor ladies. I hate sharing."

Not that he has any intention of indulging with Shae back in the city, but there was a time not so long ago that he would have done his best to find someone, anyone to sleep with him tonight, so he wouldn't have to be alone. His best was often not good enough, however. Tyrion has spent a good amount of time alone.

"Do you have extensive experience in sharing a woman with another man?" Jaime asks with one raised brow.

No, but his brother does. Oh how his brother knows what it is like to share a woman.

"You know, there's a better kind of threesome," his brother says with a grin.

"As if you'd know."

His brother's furtive arrangement with Cersei and her oblivious husband, Robert, is much less adventurous than all that. Jaime might be the good looking Lannister brother, but his sexual experience is rather limited. Tyrion guesses that happens when you meet the woman you're going to love for the rest of your life when you're fourteen.

"You're welcome to whatever trouble you can cook up, little brother. I've got work I've got to get to back in the room."

Tyrion knows that's a bald faced lie, but he lets it go with a crook of his brow and a snort.

Out of the two of them, Jaime is the one with the executive office with a view and Tyrion is the one with the brains for books at Lannister Mercantile, toiling away without thanks in a hallway where he won't much get in the way. Nevertheless, Jaime is the face of the company, the eldest son, Tywin Lannister's pride and hope for the future.

"You know, I feel terribly sorry for the Starks. I can only imagine how they feel." As if their future has been suddenly cut short.

Jaime brushes the leg of his pants, removing some invisible lint. "No you can't. You've drunk too much and are feigning empathy. It's in bad taste."

Tyrion frowns. "It's not entirely feigned. I might not understand entirely what Ned and Cat are going through, I might not be a parent, but I'm also not completely heartless. This isn't something from which they'll recover with any rapidity, I'd imagine."

Tyrion isn't a father, but he knows what it is like to be the second son and to see what genuine parental approval looks like from the outside. Ned Stark probably felt as strongly about Robb as his father does about Jaime. Losing their firstborn is not only the death of a child, but the death of whatever hopes they had for his future life; it's the sort of blow which even the stoic Starks will find difficult to weather with grace.

"No, probably not. The Starks are good people," Jaime says, although there is an emptiness to his voice that betrays his lack of real interest in the Stark family's troubles.

"This is what happens when we send children off to war, I'm afraid. A terrible waste."

Jaime shakes his head. "It's a little bit of an overstatement to call Robb Stark a child. Cersei and I had been married four years by the time we were his age."

"And so mature and adept at it that you were quite nearly divorced." It was only their father's fat wallet that allowed Jaime to play house with his bride. There was very little actual adult behavior taking place in Jaime and Cersei's apartment, besides the tedium of keeping babies alive.

Jaime shrugs. "I've only really been good at two things." One was baseball. Jaime was extremely promising, a successful pitcher in high school with scouts showing marked interest in number 18's talents, but an injury late in his senior year put an end to any dreams of his playing ball—unfortunate, but for the best, in their father's opinion, since he always wanted Jaime to succeed him at Lannister Mercantile. Tyrion knows better than to ask what the other thing Jaime excells at is: brothers don't need to share everything. "Being a responsible husband isn't one of them."

"I suppose my point is you wouldn't want Joff to sign up with the Corps, would you? Another year and he'd be the same age as Robb and could be shot down over Afghanistan or Iran or Pakistan or wherever it is the government decides we need to send troops next."

"Joff would never sign up."

The thought makes Tyrion smile. "No. Do something selfless for his country? I'd bet my inheritance against it."

His nephew is a brat. Worse than a brat. His behavior at the funeral was appalling. Cersei begged him to share his sympathies with the Starks, the parents of his pretty girlfriend, who he'd bizarrely ignored. She even offered him a bribe if he would just say _something_. Tyrion ended Cersei's pointless wheedling by snatching Joffrey's iPhone from his hand and stomping on it, cracking the screen.

_There. Now you have no excuse not to open your mouth, go over there, and say something that doesn't make me want to smack you for once._

Jaime says nothing to come to his son's defense; he said nothing at the cemetery either, but then, Jaime has always been disinterested at best, neglectful at worst, when it comes to his children. Perhaps if he'd taken some interest, his son wouldn't be so disgustingly spoiled. It's a miracle Myrcella has turned out as well as she has or that little Tommen appears to be so naturely good natured.

Instead of speaking up on Joff's behalf, Jaime drums his fingers on his knee. Tyrion suspects the restless motion is not just a sign of boredom or disinterest: Jaime is anxious about something.

"You want to check your phone again?" Tyrion asks.

Jaime's answer is a redirection. "They were proud enough of their son and that Snow kid six months ago, when they could trot them out in their uniforms for the voters."

Yes, Robb's not the only fallen soldier. The entire Stark family looked pale and sleep deprived with trembling lips and dark circles under their eyes, but Jon Snow looked particularly miserable. He'd signed up, probably thinking he'd come home a hero after defending the weak and spreading democracy or whatever corn fed logic they raised these boys on, but it is no well kept secret that Jon Snow was discharged after the rest of his squad was blown up. To look at the boy, you could see that it wears on him. He didn't come home in a bag or missing a limb, but he came home broken all the same. The death of his brother will do him no favors in recovering his wits.

What a terrible sort of irony that all the family expectations will now be piled on Jon's shoulders, when he is least able to rise to them. Hopefully he won't be required to participate in the fall election.

"There's no way Ned will lose his bid for reelection now," Tyrion observes. "Good news for Robert. Good news for Cersei."

The Baratheons have considerable interest in the success of Ned's political career, since Baratheon Industries sells to the U.S. government the very weapons that potentially killed Robb Stark. Robert depends on that friendship.

"Who would vote against the honorable Senator?" Jaime agrees.

"Although, to be fair, Ned Stark would trade an election victory for his son. He's probably seriously rethinking having sent his boy off to war. An honorable death doesn't make the death any less painful."

"There's no such thing as an honorable death. They're all equally pointless. But no one forced Robb Stark to enlist," Jaime corrects him, his knee beginning to bounce with mounting impatience. "Not even his flag lapel pin wearing father."

"No, no one forced him, but there were expectations. The Starks always serve their country. I hardly think he imagined any other path would be acceptable."

No one expects much of Tyrion, being the family disappointment from the moment he came squalling into this world, an arrival that cost his beautiful mother—known only to him in photographs—her life, but he's still trying to impress them all. Hopeless, really. His lot is probably no different from Jon Snow's, son of no one.

"There are always expectations," Jaime agrees. "Mine have me landed me counting beans for the rest of my life."

Jaime doesn't work hard, but he didn't work at all until Cersei left him. Apparently, joining the family business seemed like the right move for his brother to make after she walked out. The idea of Cersei finding solace with a man more successful than him must have lit a fire underneath him. Not a fire that burned particularly brightly—what he wanted was to be a baseball player and nothing else but Cersei and that dream much mattered—but he'd made some effort at amounting to something.

"Aw, come on. It's not as bad as all that."

His intention is to remind his brother that Jaime has the world at his fingertips. He already has everything and he could have any woman he wants too, just some of the perks of the job, his handsome face, and their shared last name, but he doesn't manage to utter a word of it. He's distracted by the sight of Cersei emerging from behind the hotel elevator's silver sliding doors.

She's changed out of her conservative funeral attire and into a white pencil skirt, mile high nude stilettos, and a loosely knit sweater that he can make out her bra through. Her hair is perfectly glossy, not a hair out of place, and she moves with an assurance in her superiority that Tyrion envies.

Jaime's head turns without Tyrion having to announce Cersei's appearance. It's like there's an invisible cord between his brother and Cersei, drawing him along in her wake. Jaime just can't escape her. It's been that way since they were all teenagers and Jaime spent too much time fucking Cersei and not enough time studying. Not that his brother would ever _want_ to escape her grasp. Tyrion might be the only one in the family that would rather never see her exquisite face again. Even his father seems to admire her steely determination to get her way.

His brother stands like a gentleman or a good approximation of one, as Cersei slips past them and takes the empty chair between the two brothers. Jaime might be the friendliest ex-husband a woman could want, but Tyrion is just a former in-law. So he chooses to stretch one arm over the low back of the chair, refusing to acknowledge her unwanted presence.

"I hate this place," she says under her breath. "Did you order me a glass of wine?"

Jaime's distraction, his obsessive checking of his phone has been all about his bitch of an ex-wife. Of course it was her, ruining things. That's been the case for years.

"Yeah, it's coming," Jaime assures her.

"Not fast enough," she sighs, lounging back into her chair until she's one long line from the tip of her rounded toed shoe to the top of her head.

"You didn't have to come, sis."

Cersei turns her green eyes on him, her blonde lashes dyed black fluttering in faux outrage. "Don't call me that. I'm not your sister."

Maybe that was the worst part of being married to Jaime: having him as a brother. "No? I was under the impression that your relations with my brother weren't severed."

She narrows her eyes at him. "You know they are."

"For how long?" Tyrion asks with a burst of laughter that he gives full breath to. Waving his hand to shake off her scowl, he begs in false contrition, "No, forgive me. I'm only joking and a bad joke at that."

Cersei pushes her blonde hair back away from her smooth forehead with the back of her fingers and sniffs dismissively, "No need to explain. I'm well acquainted with your inappropriate behavior."

"Yes, well, I only meant that there's no reason to make yourself miserable by making the trip out here to God's country. I'm sure the Starks could have done without you. We could have all done without you."

Maybe not Jaime, but he's only watching the two of them trade barbs with a smirk on his face. Presumably he's not bothered enough by his brother's antics to defend Cersei, any more than he was pressed to say something in defense of Joff a few moments ago. Of course, Cersei can actually defend herself. Tyrion knows that a bully like Joffrey folds under the attack of a worthy opponent. His nephew is a coward. Cersei has her faults, but cowardice is not one of them.

"_Robert_ wanted me here."

Unlikely. The only person who might dislike Cersei more than he does is probably her unfaithful husband.

"My mistake. And how is your dear husband? We didn't get a chance to chat. Will he be joining us for a cocktail?"

"He's asleep," she says, curling her fingers in to examine her manicure, and Tyrion can't help but notice how Jaime's eyes rake over his ex-wife at her words.

This must be their agreed upon signal: Robert is asleep. If this is her little coded message for him, Tyrion knows what will be coming soon.

Tyrion shifts in his chair, moving closer to Cersei. "Worn out from the grief?"

Cersei crosses one long, lean, tanned leg over the other. "Or he's already indulged in more than one cocktail. Like you, Tyrion."

"I'm just exceptionally dedicated to the craft of imbibing, but it only stands to reason that Robert had a drink or two. The young man was named after him after all. I'm sure he took a keen interest in Robb Stark."

He didn't. Tyrion's not sure what kind of man Robert once was to earn Ned's friendship, but he's not that man anymore. Now he's more interested in women and wine and spending his money than he is in anything else.

Jaime opens his mouth as if he is finally about to add something to their petty, little disagreement that has been dragging on in some form or another for years, but Cersei clears her throat and nods towards the waitress, who approaches again with their three drinks perched atop a bar tray, putting an end to whatever light Jaime intended to shine on Robert's impressive depth of feeling.

"There you go: two whiskeys and a red wine," the waitress says, setting the drinks down one at a time. "What room should I put this on? Or would you like to pay with a credit card?"

"Room 132," Tyrion instructs, as the woman bends at the hip to collect their empty glass. "My treat."

"How generous," Cersei flatly says, as her slender fingers wrap around the bowl of the glass.

"I might be short, but I have deep pockets."

She swirls the wine, as if it is a vintage worth savoring, which Tyrion doubts it is, despite Jaime's instructions to pick something palatable. They don't know their wine here. Last night they were offered something called _cherry_ _wine_.

"True, you do. It's your finest quality. Speaking of which, where is dear Shae?"

"She's at home." In the new apartment in Brooklyn—she doesn't like the location—he's paying for. He had offered to fly her out with him, make a weekend out of it, but she showed no enthusiasm for the plan and he didn't press.

"She's an attractive woman. I should warn her that your father doesn't particularly favor you. She might have the wrong idea about what she stands to inherit, should you ever propose."

"No plans to ask her or anyone else to marry me at present. I'm a dedicated bachelor. But go ahead, Cersei. You can try to scare her away."

"It would only be a friendly warning."

"It would be a waste of your time. Not all women sleep their way to the top."

"Oooh," she coos into her glass, her glossy red lips parting just enough to take a sip. "He's trying to hurt me, Jaime," she says with a roll of her eyes. "You'll excuse me if I don't care what you think about me, when the only thing you've ever accomplished is being born into the right family."

"You're right. I've never done anything of merit."

He taps his stubby nose with his finger, watching as Cersei nearly finishes her wine in one tight looking swallow. He's touched a nerve. "You know I kid because I love. You're one of the family, Cersei."

_Forever_ a part of the family, Tyrion fears, and not just because she's the mother of Jaime's three children—two if you were brave enough to questionCersei on it, but little towheaded Tommen's as much Jaime's kid as Joff and Myrcella are.

"You'll have to excuse me. I have to head back up to the room. Work calls," Jaime says to Cersei, and there it is, the thing Tyrion has been waiting for: the choreographed disappearance act. "Play nice," he warns, knocking back half of his new glass of whiskey with a grimace.

"Really?" Tyrion sighs. They're really going to let this play out before him as if he is totally unaware? Do they truly think he's that stupid?

"Really." Jaime stands and sticks his hands in his pockets, rocking slightly back on his heels. "But you two should have another drink for me in my absence, since I'm going to be chained to my laptop."

That better not be a euphemism.

Tyrion shakes his head, as he watches Jaime stride towards the elevator. He squints at Cersei. "How long are you going to sit here pretending before you join him?"

She swallows the remainder of her wine and turns a frozen smile his way. "We can sit together like friends. Can't we?"

"'Friends' is a little optimistic, don't you think?"

Her fingers trace the edge of her skirt, as she wets her lips, staring back at him unblinkingly. "Perhaps, but I do think we should all work together to make sure our businesses succeed. Don't you? Work together as family? I'm sure it's what your father would want."

Her questions worry him, and he doesn't like that she's invoked his father. It worries him enough that he has to take a slug of his drink before responding, "I'd do anything for my family. If that means getting along with you, Cersei, of course I will."

"Good. I'm glad to hear that."

I'm not, he thinks, inwardly squirming. There's nothing about this leading conversation that puts him at ease.

"I wouldn't want to have you get in the way of your brother's success. Of the family's success."

_Jaime's_ success. Right.

She doesn't say it, but he knows what Cersei's primary concern is these days and it's not Jaime. They might still fuck, but she gave up on him a long time ago, otherwise she would have never left him, her ticket to a life she never thought would be hers. Now everything is for Joff. Like the mother lioness she is, she focuses almost exclusively on what kind of legacy her son will inherit, scraping for it, so that he doesn't have to lift a finger.

That's the rub of it. Whatever Tyrion does for Lannister Mercantile, Joffrey Lannister will stand to reap the benefits, and the last thing he wants to do is help that unthankful little snit get anywhere in life. No, the last thing he wants is to one day find himself under his thumb, working for the monster, but ensuring that won't be the case is trickier than smashing a cell phone.

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**Notes**: If you're following Sansa (username makepinklemonade), you might have noticed that Margaery (ahighgardenrose) has turned up too. For those who might be curious, Jaime's POV is up next. *waggles brows*


	4. Chapter 3: Jaime

**Chapter Summary:** She insists on always making it about the children, when all he wants to talk about is the two of them. Cersei and Jaime—that is family, that is what he understands. Everything else is a distraction.

**Notes:** Thank you for all the follows, favs, kudos, and especially the kind comments, which are really encouraging and help drive me along.

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Chapter Three: Jaime

Jaime rubs the white hotel towel roughly over his hair with his right hand until his hair no longer lies slick and wet against his head, balls the towel up, and tosses it on the black granite bathroom sink before hitting the lights and sauntering barefoot from the room, from white, cool tile, to plush beige carpet. When he came up from the lobby, he cranked the room's air up, making the difference between the humid, heated air of the bathroom after a hot shower marked, particularly only with a wet bath towel slung low over his hips. He goes to the controls to adjust it so that Cersei won't have an excuse for keeping any of her clothes on.

He's used to fucking his ex-wife quick with her skirt up around her waist and her panties pulled to the side, but he has every intention of taking advantage of the anonymity of this Michigan hotel room and the time afforded him by Robert's drunken stupor.

He's only just changed the setting, when three soft knocks rattle the door.

Cersei.

He doesn't hurry to get it, though his heart is already beginning to pound within his chest in anticipation of having his lips on her and her legs wrapped around his waist. She'll comment on his eagerness if he opens the door too quickly just as he would have commented if she followed him from the lobby too soon. They both want the same thing, but there is this game they play, that they have always played, and there are rules that must be observed. The rules extend the battle, drawing it out until they're at each other tooth and nail. What Jaime came to learn early on is that the fight is nearly as good as the kill.

He makes a show of only opening the door partway. He leans his shoulder into the doorframe, blocking her entrance, while she stands in the hall with her red lips pursed.

He raises his brows and lazily pulls his lower lip through his teeth, as he slowly checks her out. "Cersei. Are you lost?"

"Don't be stupid. Someone could walk by."

She puts her hand square in the middle of his chest and pushes him backward into the room. He allows her to win this battle, giving way to the pressure of her hand and standing back as she breezes past him, her fingers grazing the hairs on his chest with the briefest of contact. He can smell her perfume as she strides into the room, all bold confidence, and sinks down without invitation on white down comforter draped over the king sized bed.

He kicks the door shut behind him, shaking the gilded mirror that hangs on the wall, and walks over to the silver ice bucket, pretending to ignore her presence. But he's still watching. He's always watching. It sometimes feels as if he was born watching her. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see her reaching down to slip her red soled heels off, revealing one manicured foot and then another.

_Fuck_. Everything about her is sexy, even the arch of her damn foot.

He drops three round, hollow cubes into each tumbler and grabs for the chilled vodka he had room service deliver. She lies back on the bed and stares up at the ceiling, as he pours first one and then another drink. Two doubles. He picks up both glasses and without seemingly needing to glance up at him, she stretches out a hand to take one from him.

She drinks more than she used to. But, he would drown himself if he was married to Robert Baratheon.

Drink in hand, he wanders silently over the carpet to the window, which is bathed in the late afternoon sun. It's the perfect light to see every little golden hair on her body. Under his body she'll be all tan skin against white cotton of the bed linens once they stop this waiting, this excruciating torture of feigned indifference.

He hears the ice clink in her glass and he brings his own to his lips, staring out over the grey water of the cold lake.

She is the first to break the silence, acknowledging his presence—the first step in ending their stalemate. "I had a little chat with your brother. About family."

Not what he was hoping to talk about. "Family," he repeats, between slow sips.

"Yes, I think we need to work together. Lannister Mercantile and Baratheon Industries."

Jaime reaches up to scratch his brow with his index finger. "A business proposition." Which she took to my brother, not to me. Shouldn't she come to me to handle something so important?

"Not quite. It was more of a suggestion for shared prosperity."

"And how did that little suggestion go over?"

"I don't think your brother knows the meaning of family."

He rocks on his heels, jostling the ice in his glass as he looks down at his feet. "Maybe he's confused by your insistence that anyone named Baratheon could possibly be our family."

"Joffrey inherits the one and Tommen the other. That's what makes this a family issue, you know that."

Joffrey and Tommen. Tommen and Joffrey. She insists on always making it about the children, when all he wants to talk about is the two of them. Cersei and Jaime—that is family, that is what he understands. Everything else is a distraction. Especially her disrespectful husband.

He clutches his glass tighter. "I think we could all do without Robert. Even you."

"Lower your voice. These walls are paper thin," she hisses.

He turns around, stalking towards her, where she sits coolly on the bed, one long leg crossed over the other, her drink held out from where her elbow rests on her hip. He sets his own drink down on the shiny ebony hotel desk, leaving the vodka largely untouched, and comes the last few steps to the bed, where she waits with her eyes slightly narrowed in challenge.

He stands, feet planted on either side of her legs, and bends down until he's balanced on one hand and she's forced to lean back, her glass tipping and spilling colorless liquid on the comforter as her neck bows. He brushes the shell of her ear with his nose and whispers, "Let them hear."

Never satisfied to suffer a reaction—a prickle of goose bumps along her arms from his breath against her neck—without prompting something similar in him, Cersei presses the cold glass against the heated skin of his chest, making him flinch.

"Don't be stupid. My room with Robert is only one room down."

He swears to himself then and there that she's going to scream loud enough to wake anyone who might be sleeping this afternoon. Even if that happens to be her fat husband snoring one floor below them.

"Get rid of him," Jaime hums against her skin. "Divorce him."

She wraps her slim fingers around his neck, holding him back, as one perfect nail scratches over his skin. Her green eyes, a shade strikingly similar to his own, stare back at him. "What about Tommen?"

Tommen, Tommen, Tommen. "What about him?"

She rolls her eyes. "He won't inherit his share of Baratheon Industries until he's twenty-five. You know how Renly hates me. He'd be whispering lies in Robert's ear in the meantime, endangering Tommen's place."

Lies or just the truth, which is just as damning in this case. There might be a paternity test if Robert's younger brother got his way. That's what she's afraid of. She has this dream for her boys, which involves the pair of them dominating the two most powerful companies in New York City, probably with her dominating it all, when Jaime's dream has always been about her. The truth would place all of that in danger, although Jaime doesn't see how the loss of Baratheon Industries would be so terrible a fate for their chubby little boy.

If the divorce and Tommen's paternity caused a scandal they didn't want to ride out in the city, they could leave, use some of the family money to live in the islands and forget the rest. They could take Myrcella and Tommen. He could scout for some ball club. No one would know them.

"I'll see to it that Tommen is taken care of," he promises through gritted teeth, sick of this conversation, sick of anything besides being inside of her, but he's barely said it when Cersei throatily laughs, her long neck tipping back in amusement, as if he's said the funniest thing she's heard all day.

He bites at the slope of her neck, cutting off her infuriating amusement. He bites hard, taking some satisfaction in the give of her flesh under his teeth. He still has the power to affect her. She lets her glass drop—it rolls and hits the carpet with a dull thud—and then her hands are at his towel, pulling it loose, but even as it puddles on the floor and she digs her fingers into his ass, she scolds, "No marks, Jaime."

When she was his alone, when they beloned to each other, he didn't need to mark her, and now that he shares her, he's not allowed.

He grunts, as he fists her delicate sweater, yanking it over her head, exposing her smooth skin and black lacy bra he could only just glimpse through the loose knit of her sweater, teasing him ever since she appeared in the lobby. "Skirt. Off," he demands, and her face is appropriately serious as she slips a hand behind her back to unzip it.

Her hand moves so slowly that he can hear each individual tooth give way, and then she stops, when the zipper reaches the seam, one brow arched in defiance, as she leans back on bent elbows. He could stand naked before her and make her wait, leave her to make another move to advance their mutual seduction, but he's done with this game of waiting and wanting.

He grabs her by the hips, pulling her to the edge of the bed. Tugging at her loosened skirt, he hauls it down over her ass and down her hips. He expects that she'll be wearing little matching panties, a lacy scrap of fabric begging to be kissed and then tossed aside, because she's always perfectly put together right down to her lingerie, but when the skirt slides past her knees and is kicked free of her ankles, there are no panties—black or otherwise.

"Fuck me," he murmurs.

"That's the idea," she agrees with a smirk, as she falls back in the bed with her legs invitingly spread for him.

The point of today's rendezvous was that they'd have all the time in the world, but Jaime is seized by such an intense need not to know where he stops and Cersei begins, that he dives in as if they have only a few stolen minutes, while Robert is distracted by a secretary or waitress he wants to fuck.

It's all need and no finesse, when he leans over her, pushing the cups of her bra up over her breasts so he can close his mouth around one pebbled, rosy nipple. Looking up at her, he can see annoyance twisting her lips at the impatience that has left her bra trapped tightly around her chest warring with the pleasure of his mouth on her and his teeth scraping her nipple, but the pressure of his cock against her stomach is enough to have him growing hard, which is what he needs to be inside of her, so that she'll forget any and all aggravation.

Things only really make sense when they're fucking. That's been the case since he took her virginity in the men's changing room of his father's tennis club after she'd dressed in his polo and white pants on a lark that ended with her sucking at his pulse point and grabbing him through his boxers.

He's in a heady rush, but so is she. Her nails digging into his shoulders—marking him, because he's always hers to be marked—and her heel coming up to press sharply into his lower back are proof of her need for him, so he grabs her hip, angles her against him, and pushes into her. There's no resistance to his hard thrust. She's wet and hot and it's as perfect as always. This much is always right.

She agrees with his wordless assessment, gasping yes into the crown of his head as their bodies meet in the fast pace he's set, a pace that makes her breasts bounce and brush against his chest with each smack of their thighs. He worships each breast, teases each nipple, making her moan and thrash. He kisses between them, licking a slow path upwards until her bra prevents him from going any farther and he groans in frustration.

"You're the one who had no patience," she archly reminds him.

He only wants her exclaiming her pleasure, so he kisses her hard, but she bites—she always bites—and he bites back. She tastes like vodka and wine and lipstick. Her skin is more familiar, more her. Fisting what's left of her hair—since she cut it, his is nearly as long as hers, a fact that sometimes makes her tease that from behind they might be confused for each other—in his hand, he twistss her head to the side, so he might finish his tongue's trail to the sensitive spot behind her ear, while he continues his relentless drive into her until he can taste salt on her skin and he's panting with the effort of holding back his orgasm.

Her damn nails sting, distracting him from the coiling pleasure in his lower belly, and he knocks them off with a jerk of his shoulders, pausing in his thrusts to grasp her hands, stretch them up above her head, and pin them to the comforter.

"You're going to come for me," he growls, letting loose of her to stand upright. "We're going to come together."

Her legs wrap tightly around him, her ankles locking behind him, not allowing him much room to maneuver, but his fingers do the rest of the work, rubbing circles against her until he can feel her tightening around him and the rest is inevitable. He can finally give in to his own need, letting his hips snap fast and uneven against her.

She comes, thanking God, who she has no faith in, and he empties inside of her on a string of curses, allowing gravity to take his head back with his eyes closed, while his toes curl into the carpet. It's a rush so good, it almost feels like a punch in the gut. He can barely stand, as he twitches once more inside of her, his knees suddenly feeling like Jello.

He withdraws from her and semen spills out before he lowers her flat to the bed and collapses alongside her with his hand flopped over his pounding heart.

He should have used a condom. Joffrey was a mistake, an accident of youth, but there have been no mistakes since. Even Tommen was planned. But if something needs to be done about his recklessness, Cersei will know what to do.

"You might try shouting my name, you know," he teases, letting his head roll to the side to smile at her on a heavy exhalation.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Course I would."

She frowns. "That was careless." He assumes she means that he didn't put on a condom, until she adds, "You better hope no one heard us."

He scrubs his face. Not seconds later and she already feels too far away, the connection already a thing of the past, as she tugs her bra back down over her breasts and sits up to search for her discarded skirt.

"I don't care what anyone thinks," he insists wearily.

"You would after he ruined us," she says, grabbing for her sweater. "He's Robert Baratheon, Jaime. He's the king of military industry. You don't think he could do it?"

Maybe Cersei's bore of a husband could ruin them, maybe he could ruin everything, even Lannister Mercantile, but the problem is Jaime just doesn't care one way or the other, so long as he ends up with Cersei.

"I could take a quick ride on the elevator, knock on your hotel room door, and end this nonsense, and then we could see how it all plays out."

Her eyes dart to him, as she stands to step into her skirt and zip it back up, while he lies there, his penis softening against his stomach. He's seen this look on her face before. Cersei hates to be afraid, hates any sign of weakness in herself and others, but fear is etched on her face. She looks at him as if she isn't sure which wire to cut to disarm him.

She stands for a moment, frozen, her clothing not quite straight and her hair no longer its usual smooth style, and then something shifts in her, some other, stronger impulse takes control.

She takes control of him—it's what she always does—as she shimmies her skirt up higher around her thighs and kneels on the bed, crawling over his body until her thighs cage his shoulders and her fingers weave through his hair, tilting his head forward towards her body.

"Let me handle, Robert, darling, and you just take care of me."

* * *

**Notes:** When there are more than a few days break in updates, I'm likely to post a teaser to my tumblr (username justadram). You can also follow Sansa (makepinklemonade) and Margaery (ahighgardenrose). Feel free to contact them with questions or whatever you might have on your mind.

Next up is Cat's POV, as the Starks head back to NYC, minus one senator, who is going back to Washington.


	5. Chapter 4: Catelyn

**Chapter Summary**: They're going back home, but Robb won't be there waiting for them. There's no real rush.

**Author's Note**: The Red Wedding for me is about a mother's loss and the madness that comes upon her in those final moments. After watching Sunday's emotional episode, I found myself faced with writing the Cat POV chapter I've had planned for over a month, following the funeral of her eldest. I hope this chapter in some small way gives voice to that pain. Thank you to mrstater for looking over this chapter and assuring me it wasn't entirely off the mark. Sansa's up next and I'm very excited for a Sansa POV.

* * *

Chapter Four: Catelyn

A private plane is the sort of expense that while Ned can afford for their family, he would never countenance as an extravagance the average American could never enjoy. When Ned left Michigan three days after the funeral, he flew commercial back to D.C. and they would be doing the same if Robert didn't insist upon their taking his plane. Cat would have declined if the Lannisters were going to be onboard with them, but they'd flown home the day after the funeral, Robert assured them.

_I wouldn't stick you in a steel tube 20,000 feet up with that lot_, Robert insisted over the phone.

Still Ned hesitated.

_It's too much, Ned, asking your wife and children to go through that circus at JFK after everything. Stop being so principled and accept the damn offer_.

For once, Cat was inclined to agree with the man, so Ned agreed with a little gentle urging. Arrangements were made and the Baratheon plane was sent back from New York for them.

It's a true blessing, when Cat loads her family into the plane, shepherding them up its metal steps with her dark sunglasses shading her eyes from the spring sun, because she isn't forced to interact with gate agents or flight attendants and she can just try to focus on her children.

The ones who are left to her.

She rolls over after sleepless nights, reminding herself of each of her remaining children, counting off their names and visualizing their faces, hoping to hold back the madness that lurks in her darker moments, when she can think of nothing but her dead boy. Robb was such a sweet baby, a good baby. She'd assumed all babies were as easy and good as her boy and girl until Arya was born.

Some more difficult than others, they're all special to her, but Robb was her first. The first to feed at her breast and learn his alphabet at her table. The first to test her nerve and teach her the meaning of real patience. The pain at losing him is unlike anything she's ever experienced—like a knife that has slit her open but refuses to bleed her dry and usher in a blissful peace. It is blinding, all consuming, and yet, she can't give in to it.

Ned needs me to be strong. The children need me to be strong. I owe it to my family.

Her father was at the funeral, looking decrepit and every bit his age. Her uncle was there too. They're both strong men, the kind of men who have always done their duty. The kind of men she would be happy to be compared to. Her sister Lysa made the trip and her little brother Edmure, but as much as she loves them both, Cat knows better than to draw from their example in her trials. Edmure—the consummate bachelor—doesn't know what commitment or sacrifice means and she certainly doesn't want to end up zonked out on meds like Lysa, who hovers around her son, spoiling him until he's become the most unbearably spoiled brat, since she lost her husband last year. She thought Lysa with her shared loss might be someone she could lean on, but it didn't take long to see that she'll find no comfort there.

Cat absentmindedly puts her hand on Rickon's head. She knows he's stalled, running in place on the steps of the plane to make a hollow metallic sound, but she can't make herself urge him forward. They're going back home, but Robb won't be there waiting for them. There's no real rush.

Sansa turns at the top of the stairs and holds out her hand, wearily commanding her brother to hurry up. He complies, hopping up one stair at a time like an inexpert frog, and Cat slides her sunglasses on top of her head, pushing her shoulder length hair back, as she enters the cool beige interior of the plane.

Arya is already in a seat with her headphones on, staring down into her lap and furiously working her thumbs over her battered phone, texting someone-she's a teenager now, but she doesn't spend hours attached to a phone, the way Sansa did, so Cat can't imagine who it is she's talking with. The music is loud enough that Cat can almost make out the angry words. She read an article about an increase in hearing damage among young people from these omnipresent headphones. Arya would be as pleased about wearing a hearing aid as she would be about being forced to wear a skirt.

Cat leans down and pulls one headphone away from her youngest daughter's ear to whisper, "Too loud."

Arya frowns, a look that matches her too loose pants, concert t-shirt, and unbrushed hair, but she reaches down and fiddles with some piece of electronic gadgetry, a gift from Jon, Cat thinks, and the thud from the headphones lessens. Cat pats her on the shoulder in thanks.

They're good kids. Sweet kids. All of them.

Jon comes up behind her with Bran in his arms. Without a ramp, he's without his chair. Bile rises up in her throat, as she sits down, leaving one seat empty between herself and Sansa for Rickon, who has dashed down the aisle to explore the soft leather chairs and glossy finishes of the plane, and watches Jon turn sideways, maneuvering between the seats and speaking to Bran.

"Where'd you wanna sit, buddy?"

Bran points at the seat next to Arya, and Jon mumbles his approval at Bran's selection. He's good with Bran. Good with Arya too and he was Robb's best friend, but Cat can't help but resent his presence here, despite the help he might give her and his closeness with her children.

He's not a bad kid either. He's actually a really good kid and has never given them a moment's trouble until the discharge, which he couldn't help. She doesn't hate him. It would be too exhausting to hate a kid that has done nothing wrong, a kid that for better or worse, she's had to accept into her family. It's not his fault. None of it is his fault, anymore than it is her fault that Ned loved Lyanna first and maybe best.

Of course, Cat was married to Ned for over a decade when Lyanna died, which made it ancient history. She hadn't given a thought to Lyanna, the woman who Ned had been with just months before their whirlwind engagement and marriage in years, when they got the phone call from their lawyer, alerting them that Lyanna had died of breast cancer and named Ned Stark in her will as Jon's guardian should something happen to her. Luwin told Ned he'd track down a relative of Lyanna's to take Jon or the state would handle it—he was in the middle of an election year after all and too busy to deal with the unexpected and added hassle—but Ned wouldn't hear of it.

_If there's some family, honey, don't you think he'd be better off with them? Maybe you should let Luwin try._

She was terrified at the thought of being responsible for an unhappy, orphaned twelve year old, who would never accept her as a mother. Afraid of how a troubled child would affect her own children, she kept pointing out all the difficulties, all the other options that might be better for them all, Jon included.

But he wanted Lyanna's child. It made Cat feel like he still cared about the dead woman, something she hadn't considered since Robb was born ten months after they were married and she saw how happy their son's birth made him. It made her imagine that her first suspicions about Ned's attentions to her were right all along, when he ignored her concerns about taking in the boy and refused to discuss them.

She met Ned in the midst of the fallout from a messy break up. Lyanna was his childhood sweetheart, the girl he probably would have married, but she'd lied to him in the worst possible of ways. Having been seduced by another man, she'd tried to pass the pregnancy off, told Ned that the baby was his. It would have worked too—Ned being too willing to believe the best about the people he cared about—if she hadn't eventually confessed everything and run away. So, in those early days, Cat sometimes wondered whether he would have forgiven Lyanna and stayed with her if Lyanna had never left, whether he would take Lyanna back if she turned up again, despite her betrayals. She worried that when he was making love to her, he was thinking of Lyanna, and that he'd only thrown himself into their relationship and asked her to marry him so as to forget the woman he truly loved.

It all came rushing back, when Jon Snow was ushered by a social worker through the doors of their home by with a head of dark curls, sad grey eyes, and a long face, looking enough like Ned that Cat knew it would cause confusion amongst gossips and voters. Ned might love her now, but he hadn't forgotten Lyanna and wouldn't deny her request no matter the cost to their family. Jon Snow's presence in her home meant neither of them would ever be allowed to forget.

Boarding school ensured that he wasn't her daily responsibility, college took him away, and then the Army, but here he was, helping grab a comic book for Bran and asking for Rickon to come sit down. Helpful. His presence doesn't bother her usually. The disagreement was between her and Ned and it's one she's laid to rest with time, and she and Jon generally stay out of each other's way, which seems to suit them both. He is always helpful and unobtrusive, but here he is. Today and of late, it is almost more than she can bear.

She thinks of her baby, her auburn haired boy, dead. He was shot down in a far away country, and she will never hold him in her arms again, never see him marry, never see him grow into the man she knew he was going to be. She'd claw at her face with her short, no nonsense nails until the blood runs in rivulets down her cheeks if it would take some of the pain she fears he felt in his last moments away. But as a mother, there is nothing she can do for her dead boy. There are no more hurts to soothe.

She'd prayed for him to come home. She'd secretly hated the idea of him being over there in harm's way and prayed every day for him to come home to her. He is home, buried in Michigan soil beside his father's family. Sometimes prayers are answered.

"Mama?" Sansa says softly, and Cat turns to her daughter, clearing her throat of the lump that has formed there.

"Yes, honey?"

Sansa tucks a strand of hair behind her ear with a sigh, "Do you have another? I think I could use another."

"The one I gave you will be enough," Cat says, reaching out to pat her daughter's hand. "We'll be in the sky and you'll be asleep before you know it."

"I hope so," Sansa says, letting her head tip back against the seat.

Cat hopes so too. The Xanax have done nothing for her.

The attendant who will be assisting them on this flight comes through the doorway, the wind blowing her blonde hair about her face until she's fully inside. She moves down the aisle with a small, apologetic smile. Cat's growing accustomed to this look after seeing it on hundreds of faces, since news of her son's death came delivered to their door. Some wear it better than others and this woman looks genuine enough.

Cat wonders whether the trim little skirt she wears that doesn't quite reach her knees is something Robert requires while she's on the job. She's attractive enough that she doesn't doubt he was the one who hired her. She looks like his type, but almost anything with a pair of breasts is Robert's type. She'd feel sorry for Cersei if she wasn't so insufferable.

"We'll be on our way in just a moment. If everyone will put on their seatbelts?"

"That means you, little one," Cat says, turning to look over her shoulder at Rickon, who has ignored Jon's attempts to lure him to his seat. "Come sit by Mama."

He begins his hopping back down the aisle, setting off the lights on his sneakers with each thump, and the woman looks a little uncomfortable, her face twitching into a fake smile, as she tips back, trying not to get her feet trod on. He makes it by without incident and the attendant sighs, her face settling back into practiced calm.

"Once we're in the air, I can get you all something to drink. Maybe a little snack?" the woman offers, her hands skimming over the soft leather headrests.

"Candy?" Rickon asks loudly, as he crawls over her lap to get to his own seat. "Chocolate candy?" he asks, as he bounces up and down, his blue eyes wide with the excitement of flying.

Candy will only keep him awake and Cat hopes that more than just Sansa will be able to sleep on this flight. Rickon has been up since four this morning. With the threat of a sugar high looming, Cat discreetly shakes her head at the attendant.

"Maybe some milk?" the woman offers cheerily instead.

Rickon ignores her offer, since it holds no appeal, and twists to look out the window, his fingers gripping the edge to peer at the figures who move on the tarmac. It's just enough of a pause in his frenetic activity for Cat to snap the two metal halves of his seatbelt together.

"Now, don't touch that, please," she instructs, bending down to kiss his messy curls.

He has a habit of popping out of his seat in the car, and she doesn't have the energy to play that game today. He's already kicking his legs, but the seats are widely placed—no seatbacks for him to kick. Yet another blessing of private travel.

"Well, you think about what you might want. I'll be in the back," the woman says, with a limp-wristed wave. "Suzie, if you need me."

She says her thanks, grateful that some things come automatically, because she's still Ned's wife and as such needs to set an example: rudeness to well meaning strangers is unacceptable.

Cat covers Rickon's kicking legs with one hand. "Do you want the iPad?" He nods his head vigorously, smiling like a wolf that shows all its teeth. "Then stay still for Mama," she says, as she leans down for her purse under her seat and blindly grabs for the iPad.

It's used for games to keep Rickon occupied more than anything else. It can be a fulltime job keeping Rickon busy and out of trouble, and she's thought more than once while they were in Michigan that maybe it was a mistake not to take their Swedish au pair, Osha, along with them. She's from the countryside and would have enjoyed a break from the noise and hurry of the city, and it would have lessened the amount of time Cat needed to devote to Rickon and Bran, but that would have also meant more time left to her thoughts.

I need all the distraction I can get, because how does anyone survive the death of their child? How does someone keep on going after that?

Which is why it is strangely disappointing when they're in the air and she looks over to see the iPad sliding out of Rickon's lap and his mouth slack with sleep. She grabs it to keep it from falling and tucks it back into her purse. He was the only thing she had to distract her on this flight. Arya's head is bobbing along to the music Cat can no longer hear over the roar of the engines and Bran's head is buried in a comic—he's obsessed with super heroes, Spiderman and Superman are his favorites, as he'll be happy to discuss with anyone. She looks to Sansa, but she's a mirror of her little brother with her head at an awkward angle and her mouth hanging open. The only difference is the knit of Sansa's brows, as if she's asleep but still weighed down by anxiety.

Her pretty daughter would probably shake herself awake if she knew how she looked. Sansa is the only one of her children who is obsessed with appearances and the modeling hasn't helped with that, but as generous and compassionate as she is, Cat has no doubt the more superficial aspects of her character will fade with maturity. She has no worries there.

"Is she okay?" Jon asks, disturbing Cat's silent reverie. She looks up at him, brows raised in question. "Sansa, is she all right?" he asks again.

"I gave her a Xanax so she could sleep. She's been having trouble sleeping." He stares back at her, his eyes as sunken and sullen as her daughter's, but it's not the norm for Sansa. It's not so unfamiliar a look to see on Jon's face. "She's a strong girl; she'll be all right eventually."

She's more worried about Arya. Cat hasn't managed to coax much out of Arya about the death of her brother, but she is obviously very, very angry. It might be useful to get them all a therapist.

"She stayed in her room almost the whole time. Skipped a lot of meals," Jon says, running his hand through his hair.

Maybe he mentions it, because he did the same thing upon returning from Afghanistan, because she's never known him to take an interest in Sansa before. They're the only two children who never developed a real relationship, which probably had something to do with the fact that his appearance in their life coincided with the birth of a new sister that Sansa wasn't entirely thrilled about, since it meant she was no longer the baby. And what would a twelve year old boy want to do with seven year old girl?

She's prevented from having to say anything else when the attendant moves forward and leans down to whisper, "Anything I can get you, ma'am?"

It wouldn't be appropriate to drink. She has to try to keep her head about her. "A ginger ale, please."

The woman, Suzie, moves on, bending down to solicit orders from Jon, Bran, and Arya, who slides her headphones back just long enough to ask for a Coke.

Cat sits, staring out the window, until her drink is brought to her and then she sips it slowly, trying to make an event of this drink, focusing on the bubbles and the cool of the ice, instead of the hysteria she feels building inside of her, as lack of action leaves her with nothing but her own dark thoughts.

She'd never loved anything so much as her boy. They put him in her arms and her world was changed forever. But he died without anyone to hold him. She didn't even get to kiss him one last time. Not enough left of him to kiss his handsome cheek. God knows what they'd buried.

She's only made aware of the hot tears streaming down her face, when she hears Jon's voice.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry about Robb," he fumbles with nothing in his lap, unable to meet her eye.

Here he is.

She can feel her heart race, her vision blur, her hands begin to shake.

Here he is.

Jon Snow will get married to some nice girl, who will be charmed by his handsome face and dutiful demeanor. Advance in a career that will make everyone proud, working hard and rarely complaining. Have babies. Grow old to see his grandbabies. He'll do anything and everything he wants. The world is before him.

And her baby is dead.

It hurts so, so much, and all she wants is for it to stop hurting.

She looks up at him, her glass gripped tight, the ice jumping with the trembling of her hand, and the words flow out like poison.

"It should have been you. Robb should have been the one to come home."

He looks up and fixes her with his haunted stare. She prepares herself for a verbal assault, but it never comes.

"I know."


	6. Chapter 5: Sansa

**Chapter Summary**: I'm hiding in plain sight, playing pretend. Red makes it almost impossible to fade into the scenery.

**Author's Notes**: This will likely be the last update for a little over a week, as I will be without internet connection on the second stage of my trip. Hopefully I will be able to write though and have something for you all when I get back.

* * *

Chapter Five: Sansa

Sansa pushes the food around her plate with her fork, spreading the food, and breaking it into ever smaller pieces before bringing nearly empty forkfuls up to her mouth to mimic the process of eating that she can't manage at the moment. There's nothing wrong with the salmon in a dill sauce with fresh summer squash, but she has no appetite lately. She didn't come down for meals while they were in White Harbor and no one gave her any trouble about it—her grief is no deeper or more important than anyone else's—but her mother said something about being worried when they got home, so she's doing her best to look like everything is normal. The effort feels enormous, but it's the least she can do for her mother, who is shouldering the weight alone with her father in Washington and at least she doesn't have to fake drinking her water.

The dining room table is quieter than she ever can remember it being and that odd silence doesn't seem to be helping her nervous stomach. A little noise would drown out her thoughts, but Osha took Bran and Rickon out for burgers—not something her mother would normally allow, particularly when there's no real occasion for indulgence—Arya sits at the table with her Skullcandy headphones on, listening to loud music and drumming her fingers on the dark wood of the table—neither of which her mother would _ever_ permit—and her father is gone, which leaves her and her mother and Jon sitting in an awkward silence that makes their swallowing and the scraping of knives over bone china sound ridiculously loud.

She's considering telling Arya off herself just to have someone to argue with, when her sister pulls her headphones back, letting them hang around her neck, and mumbles something about being excused.

Her mother peers over at Arya's plate and nods. "All right. Clear your plate, please."

Sansa's eyes go wide, watching her sister shove back her chair and stomp from the table—combat boots thumping over the oriental carpet—with her shiny black headphones back in place and plate clutched in both hands.

"Really?" she asks, as Arya disappears from the room.

Her mother gives her a defeated smile and Sansa immediately regrets making an issue of Arya's dismissal from the table.

"Well, I don't see why not. We're not all here to begin with and she finished her dinner."

Her mother says it gently enough, but Sansa feels her cheeks sting with heat at what she knows her mother is hinting at. She chances a glance in Jon's direction to see if he's caught on to her mother's commentary, but he's focused on his food, his face blank and his stubbled jaw working mechanically.

"Do you want me to make you something else?" her mother offers, lines creasing her forehead, as she frowns at the food spread across Sansa's plate.

Sansa stares down at it, wishing she could throw her napkin over it and end the discussion. "No, thank you. It's delicious," she adds, because maybe it is and maybe it isn't—she's not one to judge presently—but it's polite to say so, when her mother went to the trouble to make it.

Her mother sighs. "Just tell me this isn't about the modeling."

Sansa's modeling has been a point of contention between her and her mother over the years, especially in high school when it required her traveling to Europe. Her mother felt she was too young to leave home. That the pressures of a job and exposure to bad habits could be damaging. Sansa had navigated it well enough. It's only lately that things started falling apart and her problems have nothing to do with modeling.

"It's not," Sansa insists, bringing the water glass to her lips once more.

The modeling is why she feels guilty about eating pizza. Her inability to stomach anything isn't about counting calories. The fear that hollows out her stomach has been there since she sat before Robb's casket. He was her older brother. He was supposed to protect her and fly above danger like Bran's comic book heroes or slay dragons and rescue maidens like the princes in the Disney movies she watched as a child. He wasn't supposed to die. He was supposed to come home and make Joffrey very, very sorry. His death isn't just the loss of her brother, but an overturning of her expectations about the world, a realization that not only isn't life fair, but also that life's pretty bleak. But she doesn't feel like she can speak his name out loud without adding to her mother's sadness. She has to be strong the way Robb would have been.

"My stomach is just upset. I'll take something."

Her mother's eyes darting over her daughter in that appraising way mother's have. Sansa never pretended to be sick to skip school—she liked seeing her friends too much to want to stay home—but she'd seen Robb get the once over, when he claimed he was running a fever, as if just by a glance their mother could see through his life. Which is why she probably knew Sansa was lying now too.

"And the hair?" her mother adds. The inability to eat might be about her brother's death, but her hair predates the phone call she received from her father, telling her she better come home. Her dye job is from the previous crisis in her life. She did it in the dean's guest bath and he looked about as happy with the outcome as her mother does now. "Your agent won't like it, honey."

She books jobs being a redhead. It sets her apart. More than half of Manhattan has dark hair. Her mother's right: her agent won't like it one bit.

"I didn't do it for my agent. I dunno," she says, swirling her fork around on her plate. "Maybe I won't model anymore."

"Well, you argued enough to be allowed to do it, but if you're tired of the modeling, I certainly don't mind you quitting. You can focus on school."

School. Sansa's stomach flips. She still hasn't mentioned her grades to either of her parents. She failed every class. She hoped maybe she'd passed music theory after years of piano lessons, but she didn't take the midterm or final exams, so it shouldn't have surprised her when she logged onto the school's record page two nights ago and saw a string of interrupted F's by her name. The notice came the next day—academic probation.

She could call Dean Baelish and he'd probably help her work something out this summer with some of her professors, so she could go back in the fall without any issues, but seeking his help no longer seems like the saving grace it once did. At least, not without a cost of its own.

There's probably no way out of this, which means eventually she'll have to say something to her parents. Unfortunately, the thought of disappointing them now is worse than it was two months ago when this all started as a crisis with her boyfriend that the dean insisted he could see her through. Her only hope it that they're distracted enough that maybe she can put it off and avoid the ensuing confrontation. August sounds like a long way away.

Her mother stands, gathering up her plate and napkin, and glides around the table to stand over Sansa. She leans down to kiss the crown of Sansa's head, where her hair no longer looks like a brighter version of her mother's. "I have a bit of a headache myself if you'll excuse me," her mother says, smoothing her hand over the strap of Sansa's white sundress. "But I'll see if we have any lemons if you want me to make you some lemon cheesecake. I've got the cream cheese."

Sansa shakes her head. "No, thank you, Mama."

"Try to eat a little more for me, honey."

"Yes, Mama."

And then her mother is gone, leaving Sansa alone with a plate full of cooling food, and because she promised, Sansa dutifully takes one real bite. It tastes like ashes. It takes three swallows of water to choke it down.

She looks over at Jon, who sits cattycorner from her. For some reason, though he's already finished everything on his plate, he has made no move to get up. Maybe he means to keep her company while she tries to gag down her dinner. Maybe he can tell that after hiding out in her room for days, she's lonely. He spends almost every day in a dark basement like a hermit, so he's probably pretty familiar with what it's like to be alone.

He didn't used to be so solitary. Even when he came to live with them and he looked so sad, he was always with Robb.

They have next to nothing in common, but maybe they could be lonely together. They're both missing Robb after all—that's _something_ in common.

She bounces her leg under the table, where he can't see her nervous, unbecoming movement, trying to think of something to say to him.

She's going out tonight with her college roommate Margaery and Margaery's older brother, Loras. They've had plans for a couple of days, but she didn't mention it to her mother and has no plans to, because Sansa knows she won't like it. Except, given how permissive and distracted her mother's been these past couple of days, maybe she could be totally upfront about it and still get away with it.

She thinks for a moment about asking him to join them. Jon is usually the last person on her mind and they don't go out together: he's just old enough that until recently it would have been super weird for them to hang out. But it might be fun.

Only, Margaery and Loras are so chatty and loud—so overwhelming—that she's not sure Jon would feel totally comfortable with them. What would he wear? He's almost as bad as Arya, except for where her pants are too baggy, his are too tight. She wrinkles her nose at the thought of Jon dressed in a t-shirt, jeans, and his Converse sneakers at the Red Keep, the most highly hyped new club. He probably doesn't know how to talk to girls either. It's a good thing he's good looking, because he's kind of hopeless otherwise. Some girl is going to have to do all the work to land him.

"I'm going out tonight," she tries.

He's perfectly capable of asking if he can join her, so she'll leave it in his court. If he asks to tag along and then he ends up having a terrible time, she won't have to feel as if she dragged him out and made him miserable hanging out with her friends in a noisy club.

He puts his fork down and pushes his plate away like you shouldn't really do. It's just a casual statement, but the gesture and the way he sits there make it look like he's working through something monumental.

"Where?"

"Red Keep. Loras can get me in."

She's underage, but that shouldn't matter: she's got a great sparkly silver dress that shows a mile of leg and to die for heels laid out across her bed ready to go. That's been more than enough in the past. Just in case though, Margaery swears Loras knows somebody who knows somebody. And of course, someone might just recognize her—brown hair or no, it's hard to escape being a Stark—and let her in because of who she is.

"Loras?" he asks, his dark brows drawing together.

"He's my roommate, Margaery's brother? He's your age."

That doesn't seem to make him any happier. His brows grow even more menacing, surprisingly outdoing his previous frown, but he says nothing as he crosses his arms over his chest. It's like he's imitating Robb—protective older brother—and it should annoy her, because he's not her brother and he can't replace Robb if that's his intention, but it's kind of nice to have someone worried about her. She'd thank him if that didn't seem like a weird thing to do.

"Why'd you do it?" he asks, his grey eyes fixing on hers. When she doesn't immediately answer, he lifts his chin in her direction, "Your hair. You said you didn't do it for your agent."

"Oh. Because I wanted to be someone else."

Perhaps his concern softened up her exterior, which she's been trying to harden after feeling like it's absorbed several blows in the past few months, but she's immediately embarrassed to have admitted why she dyed her hair box brown. 'I wanted something new' would have an easy enough, believable enough answer. But it had to be—I'm hiding in plain sight, playing pretend. Red makes it almost impossible to fade into the scenery.

She slips out of her chair without pushing it back and begins quickly arranging her silverware on the plate, but in her rush to flee her mortification and Jon's steady gaze, she drops her ivory napkin to floor. She fumbles to reach for it and deposits it back on her plate, but her cheeks are already pink with barely concealed embarrassment.

"Sansa," he calls out to her, right before she's made her escape to the landing to carry her plate down the back stairs to the kitchen.

She stops and turns with a bright, fake smile, hoping he doesn't have anything else to say about her hair. "Mmhmm?"

"Take it easy tonight. I understand the temptation, but don't go crazy."

Just like Robb. Just like something he might say.

She shrugs one shoulder, whipping her hair to the side. "I'll be fine."

…

"I'll be fine," she assures Loras, who grabs her elbow to steady her as she emerges inelegantly out of the cab onto the sidewalk and teeters on her heels.

At least she doesn't think anyone already standing in line outside the black door of the Red Keep got a peek at her pink Hanky Panky undies.

The pre-partying in Loras' apartment was probably not the best idea on an empty stomach, but with every funny story he regaled her and Margaery with and each fruity cocktail he mixed for her, she felt the littlest bit better and the littlest bit more special. Or at least a little bit more numb.

She flushes, blushing brightly when he doesn't let go of her arm as they walk towards the entrance to the club. When she became friends with Margaery at college, it didn't take long to notice the pictures of her roommate's gorgeous older brother on Facebook. She cyber stalked him a little bit, seeing what music he liked, what kind of girls he was friends with, daydreaming about what it would be like if she dated—maybe _married!_—her best friend's brother. They'd all be close and Margaery would be the perfect aunt to her pretty babies and they'd have houses in the Hamptons next to each other. It was all hopelessly immature, and by the time she actually met him, she could barely form a sentence around him she was so nervous, which wasn't her hoped for first impression.

It got better. Having a serious boyfriend to fixate on helped initially, and Loras is friendly and flirtatious, which makes him easy to talk to. She's grown up enough that she managed not to act like a dork in his chic apartment, which is nice enough that she's not sure how a twenty-five year old manages to afford it. She thought about teasing him about whether he has a sugar momma setting him up, but thought better of it even three drinks in—it's rude to talk about money. Her mother taught her better than that.

No, he doesn't let go, just like he didn't dive into his phone, when Margaery was furiously texting somebody in the cab with a pleased little smile on her face, but kept up a light conversation with her, complimenting her opinions and taste on half a dozen topics. In fact, he doesn't just hold her arm; he slips his hand into the small of her back, when they stand before the bouncer, so maybe her childish daydreams aren't _entirely_ out of the question.

The thing about her daydreaming lately is that it seems to be always interrupted by something awful to remind her that life is no fairytale. A slap to the face over dinner at her favorite restaurant, an unwanted sexual overture from someone she trusted, and a phone call bearing news of her brother's death have been enough to cure her of believing her dreams might come true. This daydream is no different, because as Loras speaks to the bouncer, the huge man with bulky muscles in a white t-shirt glares down at her, making her want to shrink behind Loras until the great big hulking man can't see her anymore. His face is burned, making the skin on one side of his face smooth and red, but it's the way he looks at her that's unsettling.

The man pulls back the door, his body still half blocking it, so Loras has to slide by with Margaery shimmying in behind him, her gold little mini dress wiggling with the sway of her hips. They don't look back to see if she trails behind. That's the thing about Margaery and her brother, they're so exuberant, so set on pursuing their pleasure that she sometimes feels a little lost in their company. Normally it wouldn't bother her, but lately Sansa hasn't felt safe, and she hurries to follow them, not wanting to be left alone outside the club.

"Careful, little bird," the bouncer says with a smile made crooked by his burn, holding out his arm, blocking her from going through, although she doesn't read his intention to stop her before she's already stepped forward, which brings her chest into direct crashing contact with his thick forearm.

He grins down at her upon impact and is rude enough that he doesn't pull back. She takes a stumbling step back and crosses her arms over herself, as if she's cold, to put an end to the unwanted contact. Still, this close, she can smell the alcohol on him. Not an odd thing at a club, except he's supposed to be a bouncer, not a patron.

"I'm with them," she says, sounding probably just like a bird with her nervous twittering, giving credence to the ridiculous description.

She stands on her toes, trying to see if Loras or Margaery has noticed that she was left behind, but just like that they've disappeared into the crowd of pretty faces. She huffs, determined not to turn around and run back to the curb so as to hail a cab in panicked defeat.

She forces herself to smile and meet his face, so as not to appear impolite. "Please let me through."

"Since you asked so nicely," he chuckles. He lowers his arm, but as she scrapes by, slipping through the open door, he bends low enough to murmur, "Maybe I'll come in for a song or two with you, little bird."

Sansa hopes not.

But all is forgotten as the crowd of the club closes in around her and the music throbs in her chest and the lights make her blink. It's hot and dark and over the top in its sleek perfection. It's just what she imagined glamorous clubs would be like before she was old enough to set foot inside of one. Surely she can forget herself here.

Four months ago Sansa would have been worried about her mother waking up to find that her underage daughter had sneaked out. She'd have been terrified of disappointing her. But she's been trying out a new persona to match her new hair and being someone else has sounded like a better and better idea, since her tragedies became exponentially worse. Her new self isn't going to worry about her mother. Her new self is going to have another cocktail and dance and talk to guys and not care.

She'll go back to being brave and strong tomorrow. Tonight she will be wild.

She's squeezing through gaps in the crowd, trying to approach the bar, when she catches sight of Loras. He's so handsome he's hard to miss even in the little darkened vestibule he's leaning in, his crisp white button down catching the glow of the club lights, but if she thought she might monopolize his time tonight, it looks as if she's off to a bad start: he's talking to someone already. But it's a guy, so surely Loras won't want to stand around talking for too long. Sansa tilts her head and squints, trying to see who it might be that has his attention, but before she can get a better view, Margaery is at her side, pushing a light pink drink dressed with a curl of candied lemon into her hand.

"What is it?" Sansa asks as loud as she can, attempting to be heard over the music, as she lifts the pretty cocktail up to the pulsing light.

She hears Margery's answer—"Who cares!"—but she mouths the words with such eager exaggeration that Sansa can't miss it even with the music pounding in her ears.

Who cares, indeed. Sansa lifts it to her lips and sips. It's sweet. Sweet enough that she could drink three. She might, because she's going to be careless tonight.

Margaery clinks glasses with her, sloshing a bit of hers over the rim, and grins wickedly before swallowing.

"Everyone's here," Margaery shouts, tilting forward towards Sansa.

Sansa shakes her head in bemusement. How did Margaery manage to figure out everyone was here and get a drink in the thirty seconds she was waiting outside trapped by the horrible bouncer? She must be incredibly speedy or whoever it was she was texting with told her everyone was here.

But the more important question is just who is _everyone_? So she asks.

Margaery's hand closes on her bare shoulder and Sansa ducks her head closer. Wouldn't do to have anyone hear them screaming their gossip over the bass.

"Joffrey's dad."

Jaime Lannister? Well, that's kind of a letdown.

She's known Jaime Lannister since she was a little girl. In all those years, he never paid her any attention, even when she was Joffrey's girlfriend, and even if he is handsome, he's old. Too old to be always hanging around clubs and hitting on women, both of which he does based on what she reads on the gossip sites.

Anyway, Loras being here with them is much better than any Lannister. If Loras actually _was_ with them, but his head is bent in towards the dark haired man, still in wrapped conversation.

"And who is Loras talking to?" she asks, looking off over the crowded dance floor of writing bodies in the opposite direction of Margaery's brother, trying in vain to seem uninterested despite her pointed question.

"Oh," Margaery shrugs. "Just Renly. He's one of the club's backers. I told you we'd have no problems getting in." Margaery swivels on the balls of her feet, looking about distractedly. "That's nothing. You didn't let me finish telling you who's here: we're here with _Dany Targaryen_. She's so beautiful. God, I hate her," she laughs.

As if on cue, a diminutive platinum blonde moves by dressed in a frothy little white dress that barely covers the essentials. Sansa only knows Dany from gala events and red carpets that she's attended with her parents. She's certainly never had the nerve to go up to the older girl, because Dany might as well be the queen of the city's social scene and Margaery's right—her being here means everyone is here. They're not the only ones to feel that way: the crowd parts for her as if _she_ owns the place, not Renly whoever it is that Loras is stuck talking to.

Sansa blinks, looking quickly over her shoulder in Loras's direction though it means taking her eyes off of Dany for a second, because she's struck by a horrible thought.

Surely not Renly Baratheon. He's old too. Worse, he's Robert's brother.

She twists back quick enough, but the crowd has closed up behind Dany, and lured by a general contempt for inactivity and the relentless beat, Margaery motions Sansa towards the dance floor.

Sansa hesitates.

Jaime Lannister and Renly Baratheon. There could be more of them, lurking like roaches. It's like all the Lannisters and Baratheons are coming out of the woodwork tonight and that's not at all what Sansa wants. Even the thrill of being in the same club as social media darling Dany doesn't quell the sick feeling that wells up inside of her. Her stomach churns and she presses her lips together hard enough that she knows she might be spoiling her lipstick. Better that than lose the contents of her stomach—all pink, sweet liquid—all over her heels.

Before she loses sight of Margaery again, she hurries after her, begging her pardon as she pushes past people, trying to shake off the haunted feeling that makes her hands tremble and her drink jump in her hands.

I'll dance and I'll forget.

Margaery loves life and it's easy for Sansa to be her new carefree self with her. When they've wiggled their way towards the middle of the floor, where the lights flash down upon them, Margaery wraps an arm around Sansa's middle, making her dance along with her, bumping hips. They're only half way through the unfamiliar song that is most definitely not top forty, when someone slides a warm, dry hand up her arm, drawing her attention away from her roommate. She looks up and is relieved not to see the bouncer after his little threat. That would be the expected outcome based on how her life seems to be going lately.

The guy wordlessly asking her to dance is decidedly less outwardly threatening. He's older, but not by too much—he looks about like he's Loras' age. He smiles back at her with impossibly white teeth and he's dressed well and she wants to say yes, but he's a complete stranger to her.

Sansa's never danced with a random guy at a club. Other, braver girls might do that, but not her. She always had a boyfriend and Joffrey didn't find the things she liked—like dancing and throwing your head back to sing along with the words, however silly they were—to be amusing. Joffrey liked contact sports, which meant she had to like them too. She sat through a lot of games and pretended to be interested to keep him happy. Even her best efforts proved not to be enough, however.

As it turns out, she doesn't really want to be that stupid girl anymore; maybe her new self will be the kind of girl who dances with cute guys when they ask, so she nods yes. Margaery makes an encouraging face and grabs Sansa's already empty martini glass from her, disappearing into the waves of bodies that begin to bob along to "Get Lucky." Sansa smiles to herself, as the guy eases her back into his chest, presses his hands into her hips, and murmurs his name against her neck. She misses it, but it doesn't matter: she'll dance with him, but he's not going to get lucky.

She loses herself in one dance and then another, letting her eyes slip closed and her body sway, carried along on a wave of music and the feel of warm, insistent hands on her body. She can feel the alcohol in her limbs, making her slow and slightly off balance, but he holds her up, the crowd surrounding her keeps her upright, and the music keeps her on her feet.

"Sansa Stark."

Her name cuts through the painless oblivion like a knife, shouted with exposed venom.

Her eyes fly open, although she doesn't need to see to know who it is. Joffrey stands no more than a foot away, one arm slung around Margaery's waist, his lip curled in disgust.

"You are such a damn slut."

Margaery says something, pouting as she turns into him, one hand splayed over his pink button down, but it's not meant for Sansa's ears and she misses it.

"Your brother died what…like a week ago?" he says with a nasty laugh.

Sansa looks over her shoulder, realizing that the guy she was dancing with has abandoned her, leaving her to this scene that seems to be helplessly unraveling around her, despite her wish to move her feet and flee the dance floor.

"This is why I dumped you."

"I thought it was because I talked too much." That's what he said after he hit her straight across the mouth, hard enough that her lip bled and tears sprung to her eyes that she had to choke back so no one in the restaurant would see, as he paid the check and hauled her outside.

"Bitch," he bites back, lunging forward.

She tries to jump back, but she trips over her own feet and he grabs her arm as she rocks on her heels. They both nearly go over from the force of her momentum, because she's as tall as he is in her heels—he always hated that. The crowd moves, rippling away from them, responding to the commotion, and creating a circle of intrigue, in which all three of them are pulling on each other—Sansa to escape, Joffrey to hold her fast, and Margaery to pull him away.

"Let go," Sansa demands, not caring if his releasing her should send her straight down onto the sticky dance floor. "Let me go," she screams, when his fingers dig into her arm and his face turns scarlet.

He's angry. She's made him angry and she knows how he can get. He's yelling ugly words at her, calling her filthy names, spit flying from his mouth, and she claws at his hand, trying to free herself, so she can run to the bathroom and lock herself in a stall until someone thinks to save her from this monster of an ex-boyfriend.

The crowd splits, a tall, blond head pushing through. For a moment Sansa thinks it might be Loras or Jon or even the frightening bouncer outside, but the coloring is all wrong: the man who comes to interrupt the disturbance they're causing is Joffrey's father. Margaery was right: Jaime Lannister is here. _Everyone_ is here. He puts his hand on his son's shoulder. It's as she suspected: the minute Joffrey lets her go, she begins to topple over, but Joffrey's father is quick to react and catches her, seizing her hand and tugging her upright.

"There you go. Are you all right, sweetheart?"

It might be the longest string of sentences he's ever said to her, and she can't manage anything but a nod in answer, while she clutches at her throat and tries to catch her breath, which comes in great heaving pants.

"This isn't the sort of thing I imagine you want to be in the papers tomorrow, is it?" he asks of his son. Joffrey brushes himself off, as if he's been soiled by the tussle, saying nothing and refusing to look up from the floor, where his eyes are trained. He's not contrite—Sansa doesn't think he's capable of contrition—but he doesn't look happy to have his father catch him acting like this either. "Not very gallant," he adds, pressing his index finger into Joffrey's chest.

They're very similar in appearance, identical in coloring, but looking at them here together, Sansa thinks for the first time that they're not as alike as she always thought. Jaime is taller, broader, more like the knights in fairytales.

She turns, hand extended in case she loses her balance again, intending on disappearing during this little paternal lecture, but she doesn't get far with the crowd refusing to budge. No one seems to want to give way, but they all seem happy to stare at her.

It's her name again, coming from behind her, but this time it is Jaime who calls after her, his voice deeper than his son's, more resonant. "Where are you going?"

She doesn't know until she says it. "Home."

"Sounds like a good idea. How'd you get here, sweetheart?"

He looks vaguely concerned with none of the teasing arrogance that usually shapes his mouth into that lazy smile. It's only the lack that makes her answer, "A cab."

"My car's outside. It'll be more private."

"Oh, no," she quickly says with a wave of her hand. "I wouldn't want to trouble you." There's no way she's ever getting into another Lannister's car alone again. "I can catch another cab."

"I wouldn't want to trouble me either, but I'll trouble my driver," he insists, as his arm comes around her shoulder and he begins to push aside the crowd with more success than she managed. "I'm going to get you home. It's the least I can do."

* * *

**Notes**: Some new folks on the scene. I've posted fancastings for the Baratheons, Tyrells, and Targarens-they're all on my tumblr (username justadram). I've also posted some images of the Stark's Upper East Side townhouse. There will be more in the future.

Those of you awaiting a Dany chapter, she is up next! (She'll have a tumblr too.)


	7. Chapter 6: Dany

**Chapter Notes**: This is the chapter that launched a 48 chapter fic after a few eager Dany/Jorah fans suggested what was a drabble should be a long fic. For that reason some of this might be familiar to those who are more widely read in my fic. I've had to change it more than a little though, since Jorah is not a POV character. *sob* Just rest assured he's not having knightly thoughts.

* * *

Chapter Six: Dany

It's been a long night of dancing on too high heels and strong drinks and laughter, when Dany exits the club and tips her head back with her eyes closed to the night sky, drinking in the cool, late spring air, refreshingly brisk after the heat of the Red Keep. It's been the kind of night that leaves her feeling young and powerful and capable of conquering anything. Like she can change the world.

She's spent much of the latter half of the evening trying to impress upon Jorah Mormont just how grand her plans are for saving every hungry child, orphaned refugee, and victim of the sex slave trade. She has a tendency to do that—get intense about the things she's passionate about—and it turns a lot of people off. It makes her brother roll his eyes. Jorah at the very least didn't roll his eyes or excuse himself and conveniently disappear.

It was an unexpected place to run into him. He's middle aged and not a part of the social set that frequents clubs and parties. She quite nearly said as much when she left the bathroom—before her group of hangers on managed to finish reapplying their lipstick—and quite literally bumped into him in the dark hallway lit only by black, recessed sconces that gave off a hazy glow that left her light eyes squinting.

_What are _you_ doing here?_

He didn't really have a response for that and maybe the question itself was a touch rude—rudeness she blamed on too many martinis and a light dinner of salad with braised peaches or just a slight tendency to insensitivity born of not being called on her occasional lapses in graciousness. The rudeness must not have escaped him, because he addressed her, his shoulders' squaring up, as _Miss Targaryen_, a title she waved off impatiently with her hand before latching onto his arm and pulling him towards the crowded bar to make amends.

What counted for amends started off with asking how he was and quickly inquiring after her uncle before derailing into a lecture on the evils of bottled water, while biting blue cheese stuffed olives off drink skewers—and wearing Jimmy Choos, he had the nerve to point out, as if one could not care enough to save the world while wearing designer clothing. In fact, while she babbled about social justice, he had little to share in return but a fair dose of pessimism and a propensity to peer down her dress, but she didn't let either development dampen her enthusiasm.

Tonight anything felt possible. Even forgetting Drogo.

Jorah Mormont isn't exactly the type to help a girl forget. He's got to be more than ten years her senior and balding and not entirely polished, but he's more than a head taller than her and he looks like he might sport some muscles underneath his shirt and jacket, based on the broadness of his chest. he's not particularly handsome, but he looks fit and strong. Besides, his honest appraisal of her schemes to conquer all evil in the world has its own kind of amusing charm, when so many people dance around her, almost worshipful in their enthusiasm to agree with her every word and shower her with praise, while still gazing over her shoulder, always ready to latch onto the next new thing, the next more important person to enter the room and their life.

Such as tonight, when all of the attention in the club swung from her to some squabble on the dance floor that was only solved by what looked like Jaime Lannister's timely intervention, swooping in like Prince Charming come to defend some innocent faced girl. She sometimes wondered about him. He was handsome, gracious, and smooth, but she also wasn't aware that anyone she knew had ever slept with him.

Jorah should be something less of a mystery. He is not famous for his tact based on what she knows of him. Dany has met him several times at various galas hosted by her uncle's firm, Barristan & Rakharo, where he's been employed for years. Outside of formal affairs, she's seen him in the hallways, when she makes her way to the offices to receive her monthly allowance left to her in trust. She's heard his voice and her uncle's raised together, talking heatedly in her uncle's office. Uncle Barristan seems to have a rather contentious relationship with Mr. Mormont, but he's still around despite everything, so he must at least be good at his job, protecting assets with pad and pen or keystroke or whatever it is he might do.

Tonight she is the asset he intends on protecting.

"They're sending a cab around," he assures her, his hand finding the small of her back, as the backdoor to the club closes behind them.

It's a little presumptuous, so she looks up sideways at him through her mascara blackened lashes, smirks, and dips just out of his reach with a sway of her hips, stepping further into the freshly hosed alleyway.

Unless she wants to be photographed, she tries to leave a place by choosing the backdoor and not the front. Clubs and restaurants that she frequents know that's sometimes her preference—crowds and photographers and articles boasting her picture and her name aren't always unwanted, but sometimes they're too much. So, she's learned that cabs draw less attention than limos or sleek black Mercedes with hired drivers. But, when the crowd thinned out this evening and she needed a little help staying up on her nude heels, Jorah said he didn't like the idea of her taking a cab home by herself, reminding her of the scuffle that had occurred earlier in the evening, as proof of how dangerous the night can be.

_Your uncle would have my head if something happened to you and he found out I could have done something about it._

The notion made her laugh—hard enough that that he blinked his eyes quickly at her. She's used to taking care of herself. She's quite good at it. It's just been her and her brother, Viserys, for as long as she can remember. Despite not having a burly guard to escort her home, she's made it this far in life, but she accepted nonetheless with a whispered, _What a surprise: chivalry is not dead_, with the hope that his offer is an honest one.

Sometimes the worst part of the night is when everyone has gone home and it's just her alone in her house, which suddenly feels impossibly large and hopelessly impersonal. It's not the solution she wants—she wants Drogo waiting for her, his tanned skin hot under the white, Egyptian cotton sheets—but Jorah's company in the cab ride will put off that loneliness for just a few minutes more.

When the cab pulls up, he holds her hand as she climbs in. With the sudden change in height from standing to sitting, she feels a bit swoony, the world spins, and she leans heavily into his shoulder as he tugs the car door shut behind himself with a dull thud.

"Your address," he prompts her, and she mumbles her response, while straightening the gauzy layers of her dress, which has ridden too high in the process of getting into the car.

The cabbie can't hear her, so Jorah repeats it for her with exaggerated emphasis on her house number.

She's drunker than she thought, she realizes with a giggle, as the cab driver pulls into traffic, and the whip of the car causes her to grab onto Jorah's thigh to steady herself. She tilts her head up to smile an apology at him, but he can barely meet her eyes, as he attempts not to look down her dress yet another time, staring into the back of the cab driver's head with forced intensity.

By the angry set of his mouth, he looks like might regret offering to see her home, so she shifts, trying to right herself, so she might slide further over on the bench seat, giving him his space.

She fails, ending up slipping further into his side, her hand scrambling against the wool of his pant leg.

"Careful there, princess," he advises, sounding not as gruff as his frown would lead one to expect.

Of course, he's been drinking too. She's not the only one who is impaired in this cab with Pakistani music blaring from the front seat.

She looks up at him, her hand lingering, and in the flashing red, green, and bright white lights, the wrinkles around his eyes fade, leaving his skin smooth if weather darkened. He doesn't seem like someone that earned those lines from a great deal of smiling. Dany wonders for a moment what his story is. What his life outside of working for her uncle is like.

She's led a vagabond life and is a collector of people's pasts as much as she is a collector of her own scattered memories of places that never felt like home—even her professionally decorated brownstone resolutely fails to feel like home every time she comes back after a long night. If she's being honest, she's not just a collector of their stories: she likes to collect broken people and try to fix them.

She's not sure that Jorah's rough manner conceals some soft, gooey, hurting center, but he's interesting. He's honest. That's enough to make her curious.

"What's a guy like you doing at someplace like the Red Keep?"

"Like what? Divorced or middle aged?"

"I didn't know you were divorced," she scoffs. Although that might mean he _is_ a bit broken. "I meant the club is pretentious."

"Sometimes a guy just wants a beer." Dany knows better than to think anyone would go to trouble to get into the Red Keep for a beer, but she lets him continue to speak. "If it's so pretentious, what were you doing there?"

Dany's not sure. It had seemed like the thing to do. Viserys assured her it was the thing to do, and although she should know better than to go by his judgment, she often finds herself following his advice on such things as where she should be seen.

"You're not from New York," she says, deflecting his question, as she tucks the strands of her platinum bob behind her ear.

"No. I'm from Michigan."

"I can picture you in Michigan." In a plaid shirt and boasting a fishing pole or whatever it is people do in Michigan.

He frowns at her. "Have you ever been?"

"No." But she saw the pictures from Robb Stark's funeral in the papers. Very scenic. Very wholesome. Lots of trees. Like Central Park but unplanned.

"I'm not from here either. We're a pair of aliens."

"Like most of New York."

I'm from nowhere, she's tempted to say. But he likely knows her story. Most people in New York do. "You want to know what I think of when I think of home? I picture myself when we lived in Europe with a lemon tree in my backyard. Our house had a red door." That's about the whole of what she remembers.

"Then home must be a very long way away."

It was. But Michigan was pretty far too. Maybe even farther if he'd left half his heart back on the shores of Lake Michigan.

"I like you."

She bumps his shoulder with hers purposefully this time, and the thin strap on her white dress slips, not really revealing more skin than was already exposed, but definitely drawing the eye more than her uncle would approve of under these circumstances. Her teen years might be well behind her, but a little spark of rebellion makes her imagine what her white haired uncle might say about her choice of an escort. Uncle Barristan is more than a wee bit protective.

"You're drunk."

"A little," she shrugs. "But I _do_ like you."

He quirks one brow and rubs his chin. "You're fond of analysts?"

"I suppose I am." She lifts one leg, bumping the seat in front of her and nearly losing her heel. "Is that what you do?"

He chuckles. "Yes, and what do you do, princess, when you're not solving the world's problems?"

That's a good question. She has her charities. She's on several boards. But even her charities feel like socializing, when they involve attendance at one banquet or ball or cocktail party in support of one cause or another. Socializing isn't a job. Or it shouldn't be. She feels like she started out with a purpose. Started out leaving college with plans to set the world on fire and then somewhere along the way she got lost.

For the past couple of years she's been standing in place, not accomplishing much of anything besides dating. Rather unsuccessfully of late. There's no lack of men eager to date Dany Targaryen, but not many winners, despite the sheer numbers. Her name is probably a huge part of the problem.

"If you insist on calling me princess, I'm going to make you one of my court."

She hates the title. It's meaningless here in the States. People like her brother, who never ceases to remind everyone that the he and his sister are royalty, are desperate climbers, in her opinion. She's not against titles entirely. There are some she'd like to earn—president has a nice ring. Maybe of some initiative that works internationally to help people. But Princess Dany of some godforsaken country that ceased to exist more than a century ago and wouldn't care to be ruled by the likes of her irresponsible, hot tempered brother if it did still exist is a title she'd rather be permanently shelved. She hopes her teasing threat is enough to accomplish that with Jorah.

"Is that right?"

"Yes, you'll be my guard, won't you?" she asks, squeezing his thigh. "You'll need a coat of arms for me to hang on my wall. A proper one," she continues, though she didn't even pause long enough to let him accept or decline her offer.

"I already have one."

That's enough of an unexpected response that she withdraws her hand to cover her mouth. Something like a hiccup or a laugh escapes. "What?" she asks through spread fingers.

"My father ordered one, when I was a boy. It hung above his desk. One of those send away to England for your family's arms deals. Totally phony, no doubt, but he was proud of the damn thing."

"The venerable House Mormont?"

"Yes. House Mormont with a bear on it."

Her escort is a balding bear. Dany bares her teeth, growls, and makes a claw hand before dissolving into giggles that make her head roll forward. As they die off and she pants for breath, she realizes that he's looking out the window, staring stone faced at the buildings they're passing by, while they cabbie yells what must be an expletive in his native tongue at another cab, who's blocking the intersection.

He acted like it was nothing, but maybe she's pricked his pride by teasing him about his family. Viserys can be touchy about their status as wandering royalty; Jorah Mormont might be equally defensive about his lineage, however dubious he might present it to be.

"Don't be cross," she murmurs, as she pats his shirtfront. Muscled like she thought. She feels her cheeks flush at the realization. Not as big as Drogo perhaps, but big enough. It's been a few months of cycling through meaningless dates, meaningless kisses, meaningless flings, trying to find someone that will fill that gaping hole Drogo left behind. "I'm just drunk, but I'm interested, really. Did it have a house motto?"

"I don't know. Probably."

"Ours is _fire and blood_," she says, making her fingers shimmer before their faces in the imitation of flames. "Friendly, right?"

"The idea wasn't to be nice."

"No, I'm sure it wasn't, but yours is nice. I like bears."

She likes the cute kind in the zoo. She had a calendar once with baby animals and the black bear cub was one of her favorites. Admittedly, she wouldn't want to meet one alone in the woods, but there's little chance of that.

"You must not have much experience with bears," he says flatly.

"Not much, but a bear is just the sort of guard I could use."

He clears his throat, turning back to her until his gaze fixes on her hand pressed against his chest. He captures her hand in his, trapping it there.

"What is it you need guarding from?"

As she leans into his side, she can feel the outline of his bicep through his sports coat, pressing into her breast. He must feel it too. His eyes narrow and travel the line of her neck down.

She pulls her lower lip through her teeth, dimpling them as her lips turn up at the corners. But her nerve fails her. She can't make herself tease him, not when she knows she's not particularly interested.

She's looking for an escape, when one presents itself quite handily. "This is mine," she says, nodding out the window.

The cab slows to a stop and the cab driver taps at the display with his index finger, a wordless demand to be paid.

She pictures herself walking her fingers up his buttons, tugging on his shirtfront, bringing him down to her level until his lips brush against hers, so he knows to come inside, but instead he leans forward, letting loose of her hand as he hands over his credit card.

"I've seen you safely home and we part ways."

He nods towards the building, her building, as he tucks the card back away in his wallet. Her lonely and empty even though it's fully furnished brownstone. Yes, that's supposedly home.

She slumps back in the seat, letting her head flop back before gathering herself together and reaching for the door handle.

He doesn't look away from the cab driver, when he lowers his voice to say to her, "I'll watch until you're inside."

Inside, where she thinks she'll sit at the slick counter in her kitchen and have a coffee or a cup of tea—it's the only thing she ever prepares in there despite the restaurant grade range and expensive copper fixtures—before climbing the stairs to her empty king sized bed.

Climbing out of the cab, the cool night air hits the back of her neck, making her skin prickle, and she pauses at the curb, still holding tight to door. Bending down, she tilts her head to see Jorah's unsmiling face.

"Will I see you again, good sir?"

"I imagine so, _Princess_."

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**Additional Notes**: Just like with all the fancastings, if Iain or some other actor is your forever!Jorah, no matter age, hairiness, or accent, go with that, but I have fancast the entire show on my tumblr (username justadram). I also posted some pictures of Dany's brownstone. I post random stuff like this with some regularity and teaser fic too, so feel free to follow.

Cersei is up next!


	8. Chapter 7: Cersei

**Chapter Summary**: Jaime's not expecting Cersei, but there's no reason to make an appointment to see the eldest Lannister: he doesn't do anything.

**Chapter Notes**: This story earns its rating yet again this chapter. So, you might not want to read it at work. ;)

Next up is Ned's POV and we'll have cycled through all the POVs for this fic for the first time! I can't believe it. Thank you to everyone who has supported this fic so far by leaving comments, asks on tumblr, kudos, and favs.

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Chapter Seven: Cersei

Cersei walks, her stride long and slow, down the hallway from the elevator towards Jaime's office, her Louboutins clicking against the pale, patterned, hardwood floor. The eyes of people waiting in the low slung grey leather chairs, sitting beside oblong side tables with Blackberries clutched in their hands, their thumbs busily moving, flick to her as she saunters by, as much as the executive assistants' eyes do, who are accustomed to seeing her here.

No one can help but look. She dresses to draw attention, but even without her tall heels, slim black dress, and heavy, red enamel and gold necklace, everyone knows who she is. That is what she wanted, when she married Jaime. It's what she wanted when she married Robert too.

She'd rather be known for the right reasons, however, which is why she's here today to talk Jaime into a little business proposition, so she doesn't end up being known as the wife of Robert Baratheon, failed business magnate, fallen king of military industry. Because without the power of a successful business behind the name, you're just stripped bare for all to laugh at, notorious, fodder for tabloids, and that won't do.

Jaime's not expecting her, but there's no reason to make an appointment to see the eldest Lannister: he doesn't do anything. He's a playboy with an office, a pilot's license, and a physical skill set he hasn't been able to use since his injury. Cersei loves him, loves the time in their lives he reminds her of, when he is inside of her, but he has no ambition to be anything more. The only reason to make an appointment would be that half the time he isn't in his office, having haired off for a session in the gym, so she is relieved when his executive assistant nods quickly at her and picks up her receiver to announce his ex-wife's presence.

"You can go right in," the woman says, although Cersei wouldn't expect to be kept waiting.

That's never how their relationship has worked. At least, not since they were teenagers. Once upon a time, when Jaime was a young, talented baseball player with a trust fund to fall back on, Cersei waited on him, but ever since she married Robert Baratheon, Jaime's been waiting on her. It has to be that way.

"Please, don't get up," she says without conviction, when he stares at his flat screen monitor, refusing to acknowledge her until the massive red door of his office has closed behind her.

"What an unexpected surprise," he finally replies, his delivery just as monotone as hers.

"You're awfully engrossed in something," she says, coming around to his right side behind the desk, her heels deadened by the short pile of the geometric patterned carpet.

There's nothing on the desk, nothing to move, no papers, no files, nothing at all, when she sits down on its edge and scoots back, crossing one leg over the other. She cocks her head to see what it is he's staring at, but it's already disappearing. His hand hovers over a mouse, clicking, closing windows on the screen.

"Business."

"Too busy to speak with me?" she asks with a slow blink of her lashes.

The late morning sun shines through the tall windows of his office—too big for someone who does nothing—lighting up the gold in his hair. With his face in shadow, he looks almost like he did when they were teenagers, just a little broader in the chest, a little sharper about his nose and cheeks. It makes her want to bend down for a soft kiss.

"No," he says, swiveling in his chair, pushing away from the desk and purposefully bumping the toe of her heel with his black Italian leather dress shoes. "Never too busy for you, and now that you're here, I meant to speak to you about something as well." He rubs his chin, pausing before he says, "I thought Joffrey was dating that pretty Stark girl."

Cersei frowns at the word 'pretty.' "Since when did you start noticing the appeal of adolescent schoolgirls?"

He glances down at the floor, working hard to contain his obvious amusement, which only makes Cersei seethe more. "A simple yes or no about the boy would do."

She grins, the action making her cheeks ache. "He is. Yes."

His amusement disappears, melting into a cool glare over the length of his nose, broken at the bridge by a line drive. "Well, then someone needs to have a talk with him."

She raises her brows. "When was the last time you took it into your head to have a talk with your son? Surely you mean _I_ must have a talk with him."

"Someone should," he reiterates, his hands knit in his lap, as he turns his chair lazily from left to right.

She moves her legs away, crossing them again with slow deliberation, ending the constant brush of his foot against hers. Speaking through her teeth, she asks, "About?"

"I saw them at the Red Keep and he was screaming at her."

"It's loud in clubs."

"Not that kind of screaming, Cersei."

"She's dim witted. He probably has to scream at her to get her to understand. People fight. People scream. It was just bad judgment to do it in public. He's only twenty-two."

She knows she's rambling and making excuses, but she'll always make excuses for her firstborn.

"Perhaps she is stupid, but I don't think that or his age excuses his behavior. He put his hands on her."

The hairs on the back of her neck stand, as a chill runs up her spine. Screaming is one thing. She suppresses the shudder that threatens to knock her teeth together. If Joff touched her, that's another thing altogether.

Jaime must be mistaken. Though Joff has grown difficult and is prone to fits of anger, he is Jaime's son, not Robert's. Jaime has never raised a hand to her. Never would. Robert on the other hand.

Jaime doesn't know. He can never know. She has hidden the marks. Kept away when they were fresh and not yet yellowed. Foundation works wonders too. Anything to hide the evidence, because if Jaime knew, she's afraid of what he might do and how it would affect them all.

"She's obviously terrified of him," Jaime continues, his brows drawn angrily down.

Joffrey is Jaime's son, but he has seen things. He has seen and learned how a man might treat a woman from his stepfather. As much as she loves her son without measure, no, Cersei must admit that it is not impossible that he meant to hurt the girl. Or frighten her at the very least.

She doesn't particularly like Sansa Stark—she's flighty and naïve and _pretty_—but she probably doesn't deserve whatever it was Jaime witnessed.

Cersei sighs as if she is tired of this line of questioning, though she has to dig her blood red nails into the palm of her hand as she argues, "We don't know the particulars."

Jaime mirrors her own aggravated disbelief back at her with one arched brow. "I don't care what the particulars are. That isn't how you treat your girlfriend, looking like you might strangle her. She was shaking like a leaf."

Cersei wants to demand, 'And did you comfort her?' but bites back the words, letting them wither on her tongue, while she counts to five. "I don't know, Jaime, maybe they're not seeing each other anymore. Maybe she's a little tramp and they've broken up. I didn't come here to discuss our son's love life."

Jaime smirks, his concern for Sansa disappearing quickly at the promise of something better. All it takes is for her to uncross her legs, while she wets her lips, and he's smirking, shifting in his chair, his hands pulling at his wool dress pants. Men are all selfish beasts at their core.

"What _did_ you come here for?"

"Not that, I'm afraid," she says, as she rests her hand on the black, tight fabric of her dress, her heavily jeweled fingers sliding down her thigh.

His smile fades as he leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. "Shame. What then?"

She can tell by the tension in his jaw that he is attempting to hide his disappointment. It wouldn't be the first time she came her for purposes other than business. It is one place they can be sure of being alone without drawing suspicion, as Robert is as unlikely to appear at Lannister Mercantile as Jaime is to have any business associates come to his door.

"Robert needs…I need Lannister Mercantile to back our big new project."

"A new project?"

She can be vague with Jaime. He won't care about the specifics, which is exactly the kind of reaction she requires in this tenuous situation. "Some new technology the great minds have been working on. If we don't have the funding, the government bid will be dead on arrival. It's on Ned's desk, but you know how he is."

Robert believes that the Baratheon proposal being in Ned's hands is good enough, that his college buddy and fraternity brother will have his back and see to it that Baratheon Industries secures the lucrative government contract they need to prevent themselves from going under, but Cersei knows better. Senator Stark is just honorable enough to be a problem—an unusual virtue to find in politics—should he begin to investigate too closely the technology itself, which at this stage is little more than a pipedream.

Cersei knows that she must see to it that the Baratheon bid is heavily backed by the nearly endless funds of Lannister Mercantile if the U.S. government is going to be willing to take a chance on moving ahead with the new technology, so the taxpayers don't end up being left further in debt with nothing to show for it. Plenty of politicians are in favor of padding the military budget, in favor of new terrorist killing technology, which will save the boys abroad, but they don't like to stick their necks out, when it might mean having it chopped off come election time.

Jaime tilts his head. "Is that what all the maneuvering in Michigan was about then?"

"Maneuvering? Hardly. If I'd been maneuvering, your father would already be backing the project. I merely mentioned to your brother that we might work together and both profit from it. All of us. All of your children."

Even Joff.

"So, you've come on business."

"Yes. Yes, I came on business," she huffs.

"You've got the wrong office then, I'm afraid," he says pointing over her shoulder towards the hallway with a flick of his wrist. "You want to see Father or Tryion. I can't help you with that. No head for business."

He would insist on being impossible, on throwing her own words—the ones she said when she left him—back at him with an infuriating smile, when she needs him to help her, really help her with something that matters.

Tywin and Tyrion would ask too many damn questions. Questions she doesn't have answers to. Jaime was to be her ace in the hole.

"What _are_ you good for?" she spits.

If she had been born Cersei Lannister, she would have done something spectacular with the gift of that last name. She would have ruled the whole of New York. The entire nation, perhaps. His name and the power that could come with it is wasted on Jaime. Wasted on his miserable little brother as well. They're all idiots, who have no idea what's been given to them.

She slips off the desk, ready to leave in a fit of pique, but he's faster, on his feet as quick as a cat before she can take a step. His body blocks her way, pressing her thighs into the desktop, bending her back as he leans forward, hands flat on either side of her, caging her in. She can smell his aftershave and fights the urge to breathe deeply.

"Let me go right now." She swats at his bicep with a scowl, but he merely laughs, taunting her with his toothy grin.

"Turn around, honey."

"What?"

"Turn around," he repeats lower.

She can tell from his fattening pupils as much as his gravely tone what he has in mind—if she rubbed her hand over the flat front of his crisp, grey pants, it might be even clearer—but she will not give in to him, despite the fact that she's growing wet at the thought of him fucking her on this desk. The last time he had to cover her mouth to keep his secretary from hearing her screams and she bit him _hard_, but she needs something different from him this time.

"I said no. Are you deaf?"

"I heard you perfectly. But I'm ignoring you."

"That much is obvious," she says, shoving his chest.

He spends too much time in the gym. He's too damn strong.

"You want to know what I'm good for? I'll happily show you if you've forgotten."

His green eyes—a shade so close to hers that it is duplicated in each of their children without variation—flash and his mouth twitches. He might be as angry as he is aroused.

_Good_.

"No you won't."

Oh, but he is good for it. She never feels as good as she does when Jaime is buried inside of her. It reminds her of when she was young. Of when they were both young and reckless and there wasn't an ounce of fat on her body, not one line, not a single stretch mark. It reminds her of how the whole world seemed full of promise, how it seemed like her dreams of being someone were coming true once the Lannister boy wanted nothing more than to fuck her over and over and over again.

"Oh, yes I will. Turn around, Cersei."

The way he has her pinned to the desk, one firm thigh on either side of her hips, she has no leverage to knee him or she would, for holding her here against her will. She lifts a knee, testing what kind of damage she might still do, but his right arm wraps around her waist, thrusting her tighter against him.

"None of that." He skims his teeth over her earlobe, the diamond stud catching and tugging at her flesh, and some of the fight goes out of her, as her head lolls to the side, opening up to his attack. "Play nice," he whispers.

She exhales, her resistance crumbling under the drag of his hot mouth just below her ear. "I swear to God, if you mess up my makeup."

Her scarlet lips and heavily lined eyes would look clownish smeared across her face.

"Why do you think I want you to turn around?"

To get a choice view of my ass. "So considerate," she says with a jerk, wrenching from his grasp successfully now that he allows it.

She twists around to face the desk, and her cheeks flush at the pulsing need that makes her act against her original intentions. It seems forever since Michigan. Forever since she felt like more than herself.

Robert barely ever tries with her anymore, but she's not complaining. His disinterest is a blessing. There are plenty of whores and climbers willing to fill that role, and she is spared. At this point she rarely has to take him in her mouth to end his drunken attempts to fuck her. But the nights when he is home, when his heavy body rattles with snores beside her, seem endless, while she lays awake thinking of Jaime's tanned hands on her hips, on her breasts, knotting in her hair as she rocks atop him. That was how they conceived Tommen, her youngest, her baby, her beautiful little blond angel.

For once Jaime's lack of interest in his children serves her well. Any attention Jaime might pay the boy would likely highlight the striking similarities between himself and Tommen. Robert might be blind to it, but others are not. His brother, for one, seems to always stare too long at Tommen. Jaime's attention, however, as always is firmly focused on her, like she's the most beautiful, fascinating creature in the world.

His hands push up her skirt, as she bends over the desk, her weight resting on her forearms, working it over her hips, bearing her ass to the windows behind them.

"Hurry up," she says blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes, when she tosses a look over her shoulder at him.

Goosebumps have broken out over her skin from the overly air conditioned office, but she's only focused on the cold of the room for a second, when his hand connects with her upper thigh and ass with a sharp smack. It stings hotly, making her grit her teeth and hiss.

If the spank is punishment for her pushiness, she doesn't intend on letting him think he has taught her a lesson. "And use a condom."

Even Robert might notice if the wife he never fucked suddenly was pregnant. Jaime never seems to care about such details, so she must.

He slides a hand into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet to fish for a condom kept there for moments such as these. It's tucked away inside the billfold just for her. Robert might sleep with whatever trash falls in his path, but Jaime belongs to her exclusively.

The silver foil wrapper hits the desk next to her, and she reaches for it, balancing on her elbows as she nips it open with her teeth to the accompaniment of the clink of his belt and rustle of his pants. The sounds alone cause her to push back against him, bumping into his hand as he takes the condom from her and rolls it down over himself.

"I knew you'd sheathe your claws," he says rubbing his head against her, where she is embarrassingly wet.

"Shut up," she begins, finishing on a moan that spoils the effect of her wrath as he pushes into her without warning.

Her fingers scramble against the slick surface of the desk, seeking purchase as he thrusts into her again and again, his fingers holding tight to her hips, yanking her back into him with each meeting of his hips and her ass. She turns her head, pressing her cheek into cool of the desk, letting her eyes slip closed. She gives in to the slide of her body, the rub of her breasts in her lacy bra against the unyielding surface beneath her, and the slap of their naked flesh.

It would sound like romantic nonsense if she explained aloud how it is to have Jaime inside of her. Lock and key. Made for each other. Utter nonsense. And yet, it isn't so much the stuff of tawdry romance novels as it is a certainty that if she had been born as she ought to have been, she would have been Jaime Lannister. Strong and beautiful as they both might be, the world was not hers to have the way it was for him. He let that opportunity slip, settled for something less, said he only wanted her, and still speaks of desert islands like an idiot, when she wants everything. But when he is inside her, she is as close to being him as she can be. It is a taste of the past, of her near perfection, of his.

He fills her, hitting a spot he reaches effortlessly through practice so that now it feels innate. Perfect. Almost perfect.

"Faster, Jaime." If he would only… "Harder. Oh, God. Jesus."

He complies, cursing under his breath, low enough that no one could possibly hear. People are just outside of the door, conducting real business, and a certain amount of discretion is necessary, but she has learned how to control herself in these stolen moments, humming her relief as the pleasure coils tighter, drawing her closer to the edge with every snap of his hips.

He murmurs her name, a hot litany of prayers to her mortal flesh laced with profanities that would shock her confessor, given how chastely she portrays herself, when she attends Mass. As she tightens around him, her eyes squeezing shut in anticipation of an orgasm she knows will have her biting her lip to keep from screaming, she adds her own chorus, his name, only Jaime, Jaime, Jaime.

She gasps, choking back a shout, as the world collapses in on this one point of intense pleasure, waves of it breaking over her so hard that she is only dimly aware of Jaime's body briefly draping over her, his hands skimming the sides of her body, his breath on her neck.

As the world rights itself, she gets her hands under herself, her palms pressed flat, and turns her nose into the desk, taking a deep breath before pushing herself upright. Jaime has already come. Already pulled out of her. Only the sound of his breathing returning to normal implies what they have done. That and a need to run to the ladies to clean up, she thinks, as his hands settle on her to shimmy her skirt down until it is back in place, leaving her unruffled.

It was too brief. Somehow it is always too brief. She never lives long enough in that moment.

"I'll talk to Tyrion," he announces with a pat to her ass.

He sounds so impossibly pleased with himself.

She turns, leaning back against the desk to watch as he disposes of the condom in an empty waste basket and tucks himself away, zipping up his pants and running a hand through his hair, once he's finished.

"Don't bother," she says, grabbing the black, narrow tie he'd tossed over his shoulder to fuck her. She drags her hand down to the midpoint and tugs. "I'll talk to him myself."

"Ah, I see how it is."

She came her for his help, but he gave her something else instead.

"Do you?" she says, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to his lips.

She tries to draw back, but he grabs her elbows and kisses her again. Harder, more insistent. Taking what he can. That's all right: she does the same.

When his lips break from hers, she's ready to tell him, not for the first time in their years together, "I can handle this myself."

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**Notes**: If you'd like to follow Dany on tumblr, you'll find here at username princessofapalacecracked. I posted an inspiration pic for Lannister Mercantile you can find on my tumbler (username justadram). Follow me for further inspiration pics and fic teasers.


	9. Chapter 8: Ned

**Summary**: Ned's duties as the representative of the people of New York have kept him away since his son's funeral, but as soon as he is able, he finds his way back home.

**Notes**: As it turns out, this chapter made a bit of a liar out of me. Someone asked ages ago whether Brandon would be making an appearance in this fic. I said no and that Ned would only have one brother for various reasons. That's still technically true, but Brandon is briefly mentioned here. It just ended up making emotional sense.

Also, this chapter earns its M rating, so it probably shouldn't be read at work.

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Chapter Eight: Ned

Ned's only been home five hours, when he sits down at the desk with a heavy sigh and flips open his laptop, leaning back in his chair as the computer comes to life with a soft hum. Leaning to one side in the plaid covered wingback chair, he pulls out two Blackberries, one for work, one for personal use, from his back pocket. They're bound to ring during his chat with Jon, because the demands of Washington don't stop for a trip home. He doesn't want anything to disturb them, so he turns off both ringers and slides the phones across the wooden surface of the desk until they're nearly out of reach.

He arrived on the earliest flight from Washington, so he could sit down to breakfast—pancakes made with extra vanilla, bacon that crackled in the pan, grilled grapefruit halves, and freshly squeezed orange juice, because Cat is a firm believer that breakfast is the most important meal of the day—with his family. His duties as the representative of the people of New York have kept him away since his son's funeral, but as soon as he was able, he found his way back home.

It was clear at breakfast that despite his best efforts maybe he'd waited too long. Only Rickon seemed his usual high spirited self. Perhaps it's a blessing from God that he's young enough not to understand fully the loss of his brother. The rest of them understand it keenly enough. Bran was subdued, slowly flipping through the pages of the comic that Cat let him read throughout breakfast. Arya scowled at her food even as she shoveled it into her mouth fast enough that it was a miracle she didn't choke. For some reason Cat also had nothing to say about Arya's headphones, which were blaring music loud enough that he could almost make out the lyrics.

None of the youngest three's behavior would normally pass muster. It wasn't as if Cat was physically absent. Her charitable engagements for the day didn't start until after breakfast. She was present. In fact, Cat seemed almost inescapable, hovering over all the children and hardly taking time to sit and eat in her obvious need to fix whatever it was that was going wrong with all of them. Sansa certainly couldn't escape her mother's nervous inquiries. Cat asked Sansa more than once whether she wanted an egg white omelet instead of the pancakes that sat untouched on their daughter's plate. But despite all this hyper focus, it was evident that Cat simply wasn't herself.

It's understandable. He remembers how she looked when she first held Robb. How her face lit up when they put the baby in her arms and her auburn hair was plastered to her face and her cheeks stained red from effort. She'd never looked more beautiful to him than the moment she became a mother and made him a father. They're still here, sitting at the dining room table, eating their meals, going off to work, but they buried their son. Neither of them will probably ever be the same.

The one who is most awkwardly in the middle of this is Jon, brother to Robb in all ways but blood, the soldier who came home broken, but came home, when their eldest was not so lucky. Ned knows what it is like to be the surviving brother in a conflict, the guilt and uncertainty that eats away at you, the constant questioning whether your brother wouldn't be better suited to take the reins. Wondering whether the wrong one of you has survived can be crippling. Given how troubled Jon seemed before Robb's death, Ned is worried this new burden is simply too much for the young man.

At breakfast Jon was completely disengaged from everything going on around him—his eyes empty, his face blank, his movements automatic and stiff, as he reached for plates and passed them along silently. The only words he spoke were directed at his siblings, such as an encouragement to Rickon to drink his juice or an offer to give his grapefruit half to Sansa, which happened to be the only thing she finished. There are the periodic episodes, but mostly Jon's simply been quiet since coming home from the war. Jon was never as outgoing as Robb, but this is different. This goes beyond his usual quiet thoughtfulness. Jon's old enough that Ned doesn't know the details of his medical care and feels uncomfortable prying into them. So he can only speculate. It could be medication that keeps Jon in this perpetual state of blankness or it could be that his brother's death has slowed his recovery process. Either way, he wants Jon to know someone is worried about him and that he hasn't forgotten he has another son.

They are all attempting to weather this loss without breaking. Ned's been focusing on work: the people that could benefit from new legislation, eliminating waste, and speaking out for justice. It's draining, when he'd rather be at home. He wishes he could take the whole family to Michigan, where they could retreat from the public eye and tend their wounds in dignified retirement. But, as long as he's sworn to serve and he thinks he can do some good to effect chance, that isn't a choice he can make. Jon understands that. Cat understands that. Hopefully the rest of them do too.

Ned has obligations here as well as in Washington, and he takes his duties as husband and father as seriously as he does his duty to the people. Jon is his particular responsibility. The children have Cat, but Jon has no one but him and it has been that way since the boy was delivered to their doorstep clutching a duffle bag. He may not be a scrawny, sad eyed little boy anymore, reminding Ned for all the world of Lyanna at the same age, but Jon is still his sworn responsibility. Which is why between syrup laden mouthfuls of pancake he asked Jon whether he could spare a few minutes this morning?

Not that he thought the young man would have plans that might keep him away from a talk in Ned's home office. He could probably request a late evening meeting and find Jon sprawled across his bed in the basement, while half the young people of New York are out somewhere in the city drinking, dancing, laughing, getting themselves into some kind of trouble. Jon doesn't ever seem to have plans. In fact, it's Jon's habit of keeping to his room that worries Ned. When Jon's closeted away, it's hard for anyone to tell whether he's all right or not.

When the knock sounds on the door, Ned calls out to Jon to come in. He shuffles through the door and gestures at the doorknob, a wordless question.

"Go ahead and close it."

His shoulders are slightly hunched and his hands are stuffed in his jean pockets, as he comes over to the empty seat opposite Ned and slumps into the wooden chair. Wearing something that approximates a weak smile, he rubs at the two day stubble he's sporting, as his eyes cut to Ned and then back away to some object on the cluttered custom bookcases behind him.

It might be that he thinks he's in for a lecture. Or a scolding.

When Jon was younger, he was called in here to sit in judgment on the rare occasion that he was involved in some scrape. After a pitifully brief interrogation, Ned typically came to the conclusion that though Jon would rather bear the burden of guilt than implicate his brother, he rarely earned the full share.

The thought of Robb and Jon, young and with so much promise, with their whole lives ahead of them, makes Ned feel bone tired. So much potential. It can't all be wasted. He has to save the boy who's left.

"I'm worried about you, son."

Jon shifts, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm fine."

Ned nods, though he doubts that's the truth. Jon's just trying to be brave—his last name isn't Stark, but it might as well be. Of course, there's a good chance that male pride is getting in the way of total honesty too.

"Good. That means you're getting out more?" Jon obviously doesn't have an answer for that and stares down at the floor. "I hope you're at least making it to your counselor for your sessions?"

Confessing his problems to his father might not be Jon's first choice, but there is someone whose job it is to listen to Jon talk.

"Yes, sir."

"Good. I think that's for the best."

Jon probably likes going to his counselor about as much as Ned would if such a treatment was prescribed for him. The thought of stretching out on a sofa and exposing his inner thoughts to anyone but Cat seems unnatural, but then perhaps that isn't how Jon's appointments work. Cat has suggested some of the children might need to see a therapist to help deal with their grief. After seeing them at breakfast, he is tempted to agree, and who knows, after he begins the task he's set for himself this weekend, he might not feel as if it is only the children who are in need of a professional.

"Yeah. It really helps."

Jon's Adam's apple spasms at the conclusion of this flatly delivered assurance.

"They do their best at the VA to help. You have to remember that." There's more Ned wants to say, but he doesn't quite have the words for it. The offer he intends on making Jon will have to speak for itself.

"I'm going to start going through your brother's room today. I could put it off, but I don't want it to become a tomb here in the house. Cat will end up being haunted."

"I can help."

He says it firmly enough, but Ned can also see how Jon's whole body has tensed at the idea of packing up Robb's things. It's not a task he _wants_ to help with. It is a task he feels compelled to help with.

Jon has always been quick to help. Sad and withdrawn as he was, he threw himself into helping as soon as he arrived in New York, changing Arya's diapers, setting the table each night for dinner, and picking up after himself without ever being asked. Ned suspects he learned to be helpful as a boy, when he didn't feel as if he belonged in their family and was looking for ways to earn a place. Ned knows from having been a younger brother and standing in his brother's shadow that habits learned young are hard to overcome, and whether it's humility or helpfulness, it's also not always as healthy a virtue as one might expect. Ned's humility has made each campaign a living nightmare. Jon's urge to make himself helpful might be an acute form of torture, when what he really wants is to lock himself in that dark basement.

"I'm his father. It should be me." Ned held Robb, a little squalling, wrinkly faced newborn wrapped tightly in a blue edged blanket and he buried him draped in a flag, and now he will pack up in boxes the accumulation of a short life, so no stranger's hands disturb what was his son's. "Go out and do something today instead. Get a little fresh air."

Staying in the basement forever is not an option that Ned fears will end well, and he has no plans to bury another son.

"I mentioned it because I thought there might be some things you'd want. Pictures maybe. Whatever it is you might want. You probably know what he has up there better than the rest of us."

The muscle in Jon's jaw becomes more prominent, as he glares down at his hands, fingers digging into the thighs of his jeans, which are too damn tight to possibly be comfortable.

"You won't find anything up there that would embarrass you."

Ned knows the expectations he places on his sons, on all his children—to be good, honorable, service minded citizens who put the needs of the people ahead of themselves—would seem unrealistic to some, but he doesn't demand perfection. He loves them for their flaws as much as their successes. Whatever is up there to uncover, he isn't afraid of it.

"I know, son. I'm not worried about that. You've made me proud."

Jon mumbles something, while rubbing the back of his neck. It might be thanks, but it just as easily could be a refusal to accept Ned's praise. Robb was better equipped to accept his father's approval, being born into the role of heir to the Stark tradition. But it's long past time for Jon to feel like more than an interloper in their family.

So he offers Jon Robb's room, and unsurprisingly, Jon refuses it without much of a pause.

"It would be a good chance for you to move out of the basement."

Without a bedroom to spare, when Jon came to them they scrambled to covert the basement home theater into a bedroom suite. Jon got his own space and there'd been less of an excuse to watch television, but Ned never much liked the solution. It felt too much like Jon was placed in storage. It was just one of the many things he and Cat argued about at the time. It was hard on her. It was hard on all of them.

"I wouldn't feel right about it."

"Robb would have wanted you to have it. You two spent an awful lot of time up there." No doubt occasionally doing things they shouldn't with that Theon Greyjoy boy from Jon's class, who hung around here over school breaks so much that Cat once asked Ned whether they'd acquired yet another boy when she wasn't paying attention.

Jon crosses his leg, balancing his ankle on his knee to pick at the rubber sole of his sneaker. He's disappearing right before Ned's eyes—a neat trick—when he finally says without looking up, "Why don't you give the room to Sansa?"

"Has she ever even set foot inside of that room?"

"I dunno, but she's his sister. It should be hers."

"Sansa already has a perfectly good room right across the hallway," Ned says nodding towards the door, which faces his daughter's room. With his job keeping him away from home the vast majority of the time, Sansa almost always has this entire floor to herself. Cat doesn't think it's a totally unreasonable arrangement, since Sansa was until recently the only teenage girl in the house and family peace demanded that she and Arya no longer share a room. He signed the checks that paid for the new furniture and accessories and design consultation for the redesign of Sansa's room, all to make her happy, and as a result, Robb's room is a far cry from what she's got now. "I don't think she'll want to switch."

"Maybe, but it's the top floor, best views. A view like that every morning might cheer her up."

And Jon doesn't have a view at all. "And what about you? You couldn't do with a change?"

"I'm fine."

Ned sighs, his fingers worrying his glass paperweight. "Well, you'll have to be the one to try to sell her on it if that's what you want, because I'm only going to offer it to you. What happens to it from here on out is up to you."

…

It's more exhausting than he could have imagined and even though it's only four in the afternoon and he's not more than a third of the way through Robb's things, Ned retreats down two floors—taking the elevator, a rare concession to the limits of his body—to his and Cat's bathroom to shower away some of the pain that clings to him, weighing down his shoulders and tightening the muscles in his back until he can barely stand straight.

Inside the bathroom brightly lit by a wide window that overlooks the garden below, he strips down, dumping his clothes unceremoniously all over the heated marble floor. Trancelike, he makes his way inside the shower stall, turns on the water, and stands beneath the spray of the rain showerhead. Time ceases to have meaning, as he leans against the cool slick of the white marble subway tiles, letting the wall support his weight with his head hung forward and the hot water run down his neck and back, until he hears the muffled sounds of the bathroom door opening and shutting.

Cat must be back. Thank God. His thoughts of packing Robb off to boarding school and college and the service and now forever, each time leaving more things behind in his room, are a painful maze of thorns. Better to have Cat at his side to scatter them.

"Ned?"

He straightens up with some effort and swipes the streaming water off his face. The change in the room's temperature from the door to the bathroom opening makes his skin prickle and the hair on his body stand on end. He's still blinking away water, when he realizes that it isn't just the bathroom door that's caused the air to change, it's the opening of the frosted glass shower door.

Cat stands behind him with the top part of her body partially inside the shower. She's naked to the waist, her ivory blouse gone, and her hair down, hanging over her pale, freckle dappled shoulders in a heavy curtain that doesn't quite reach her dark, rosy nipples. One hand holds open the door, but the other is twisted behind her, struggling to unzip her pencil skirt.

"Turn around," he instructs, stepping towards the open door and buttressing it with his shoulder so as to grip her zipper with wet, pruned fingers.

It's the hidden button that must have been giving her trouble and by the time he's managed it with wet hands, drops of water splotch the pale blue fabric. He tugs down on the zipper, and she shimmies the skirt over her hips, dropping it in a pile at her bare feet, as she discards her panties without comment on the damage he's done to what is probably an expensive item of clothing and turns back to him.

With a hand splayed against his chest, she backs him further into the shower and the door closes behind the both of them. As he steps back, the pulse of water from the showerhead hits his back again, sending hot rivulets over his shoulders that she works to brush off, although more incessantly fall to replace the ones she's smoothed away with her gentle touch. It helps unknot the tension there more so than the water has.

"Osha told me."

She looks up at him and he can see her blue eyes starting to fill with tears.

"It had to be done."

"Probably, but you shouldn't have done it alone. I would have helped."

"You've been here alone, managing everything."

"That's my job, honey."

She takes on more and more with such grace and strength, even when he knows she's wracked with pain. Sometimes he feels as if she doesn't need him all, she's so completely capable, but he couldn't let her take on this too. He has to leave again on Monday and he doesn't know if he'll manage to finish going through Robb's things tomorrow after they come home from church, but either this weekend or the next, he'll do it. He can do this one thing for her.

"Even if I'm not doing a very good job of it."

"Cat."

He knows he's grim and solemn. He worries in the time since their whole world changed he's been little comfort to her. He feels more in his heart than he says, but what use are unspoken feelings?

"I'm failing at everything. No, I am. Ned, I don't think I can take this," she says, her shoulders beginning to shake with checked sobs.

Losing their son is the hardest thing Ned's ever lived through and there are no rules to follow, no guide, no regiment to follow to make it any easier. He can barely help himself, but his children need his help, Cat needs his help.

There's one thing he might do for her if she'll let him.

Even barefoot his wife is tall; it doesn't take more than the slightest tilt of his head to bring his lips down to hers. They're soft from her moisturizing lip balm. He recognizes the vaguely peppermint taste of it on his tongue, but it's washed away quickly by the water that continues to drip from his face, making his slow kisses, wet, as he works her lips apart, tugging, sucking, pulling. For a second he thinks he might taste salt, so he slides them both under the water to wash away tears too.

Touching her doesn't exactly make his heart skip the way it did in the beginning, when he was raw from what felt like the loss of the love of his life despite Lyanna's betrayal. Cat might be the only woman he fantasizes about, but it's not because of the lure of the new and unknown. It's a familiar comfort they've earned over the years and it does something better than just make his pulse pound.

Her breasts are warm and heavy in his hands, a weight he knows well, and under the pads of his thumbs her nipples become hard, forming peaks he's worried with his tongue enough to anticipate how long, how hard, how much to make her squirm. The indent of her waist seems shaped to his hand, as he turns her around and holds her against his chest, his hand spread over her slightly soft stomach after five babies. Kissing at her exposed neck, dragging his teeth over the one spot she loves, everything starts to melt away, as her body tucks against his, the flare of her hip and the rise of her ass fitting to him like hand and glove.

He knows his wife better than he knows anyone else. Sometimes when he's with her, it's not just pleasure and relief, sometimes it's a reassurance of their love, that someone understands, that they're alive. It's a comfort to disappear inside of someone else, who is always there to hold you up. He could use some of that right now.

She could too. Although they haven't been together since the news arrived—something he's understood without question—she rocks into him, her skin all warm and wet and slick, making him grow hard against her backside, and he knows they're both ready.

"The bed," he murmurs against her ear.

It might be tempting, but he'd better not attempt sex here in this glass and marble shower. Despite the fact that he can still lift her up, he's afraid in his current physical and mental state, he might drop her against the slippery shower walls.

Not bothering with toweling off, they leave a wet trail of puddles on the tile and carpeting, as they abandon the bathroom for their bed, where they knock off oversized, grey and white pillows and peel back the plush feather comforter. The overhead light is off and the sheers are drawn behind the heavy grey curtains to keep out the late afternoon sun's hot rays. They exist in a soft, hazy light, as Cat crawls beneath the sheets and he joins her, tucking a wet, darkened strand of hair behind her ear. It was the thing he was attracted to the most at first—her beautiful hair. He wanted to touch it, wrap it around his fist and test the strength of it.

There's something oddly calming and cocoon like about being sopping wet beneath the sheets with his body atop hers. Even more so once he's sheathed inside of her and her hands press against his back, urging him on. Her body is known to him: there is no nervousness that he won't be able to please her or that she won't end up pleasing him. This is a dance they both know.

"Just like this," she says, locking her ankles behind his back.

Even her soft assurances are welcome in their familiarity.

She moves beneath him, meeting each thrust with a rock of her pelvis, driving him deeper. After weeks of not touching her, it isn't long when he wants to groan loudly with the effort of holding himself back until she comes, but he doesn't know where the kids are or if Osha might be in the boys' room across the hall, so he swallows the sound, holds tight to her hip, and quickens his pace, while thinking of anything but the bounce of her breasts against his chest and the rub of her thigh against his waist and the snugness of her around his dick.

Cat's a little less careful in her vocalizations. Kisses only smother so much sound.

He whispers encouragement, urging her to come, calling her endearments he's usually too awkward to say outside of their bed, and when she tightens around him, he plunges into her in relief, driving himself to completion as her fingernails dig into his skin and she gasps against his shoulder, while her body flutters around him. Thank God he can still do this for her. Thank God she wants him and doesn't blame him for the death of their son. Thank God they have each other. Thank God it was her all those years ago that he met and fell in love with, because there's no one else he could survive this with.

Cat insists Rickon needn't be their last; she hasn't been on birth control for the last six months. Still, things may have changed with the death of their son, so he hesitates as his balls tighten, sweat dripping off his brow as he hovers over her, wondering whether he should pull out.

Her jaw sets with determination, as she grasps his ass tight, holding him to her. "Come."

He feels almost hollowed out, strangely emptied, and suddenly useless, when he collapses alongside of her. So he reaches for the Kleenex box tucked behind the vase of white roses on the bedside table to assist her with something for just a moment more. There are always fresh flowers by their bedside and in the entry hall and sitting atop the dining room table. They're changed every three days. Sometimes they appear other places as well. The first flowers he ever gave her were roses, and sometimes he finds them on his desk, placed there by her hands—just one of the many things his wife sees to, making all of their lives better.

She gives him a watery smile and takes more than one tissue from the box.

By the time she's seen to herself and tossed the used tissues in the wastebasket, she's shivering. The AC is hard at work on this humid day and they're both still wet, so he pulls the comforter up higher about their necks. With a sigh she moves closer to him, inching over to share the same sodden pillow. Eventually they'll have to crawl out of this bed and go about the rest of their day, but not just yet.

With their noses almost touching, she breaks the silence.

"Every morning I wake up remembering that he's gone. Ned, sometimes I think I should have died too."

That makes his heart pound, but not in the good way.

"It can't be that way. I need you."

"Do you?"

"Of course. And the children." He swallows, slipping his arm over her waist, drawing her to his body. "You have to stay."

He might have the big political career, but Cat is the stuff that holds them together. Cat's everything.

"If you say so, Ned."

He kisses the cold tip of her nose.

"I do."

* * *

**Notes**: Inspiration pictures for Ned's office and Ned and Cat's bedroom suite can be viewed on my tumblr (justadram). Just a reminder of the characters currently running blogs: Sansa (makepinklemonade), Margaery (ahighgardenrose), and Dany (princessofapalacecracked). You can also follow me for sneak peeks and more inspiration photos.

Also, a little plug for gameofshipschallenges on tumblr, the challenge blog I run along with khaleesa. If you enjoy writing, creating graphics, fanmixes, art, etc. of the AU variety, check out our current AU challenge, Golden Ships. We'd love to have new participants and lots of supporters.

Up next is Jon. The content should warm the hearts of you Jon/Sansa shippers.


	10. Chapter 9: Jon

**Summary**: It's what Ned suggested he do today—get out and get some fresh air—but Sansa's invitation to join her in the park with the boys is an unexpected one.

**Notes**: Golden Ships resulted in a little break in the updating schedule, but I should be back on track now. Thank you for your patience! I did post some A City stuff in the meantime, so if between updates you're looking for content or just want to fangirl with me, follow me at tumblr (username justadram).

* * *

Chapter Nine: Jon

When Sansa stood leaning against the door to his room in a blue sundress different from the one she'd had on at breakfast, her painted toes curling in the beige carpet, he must have taken too long to respond to her question, _You want to come to Central Park with me and the boys?_ Because she finally added with a tilt to her head, _I could use the help_.

It's what Ned suggested he do today—get out and get some fresh air—and Sansa most definitely could use his help. Even taking Rickon alone somewhere was something of a challenge and adding Bran to the mix made it a juggling act. So between satisfying Ned and helping out Sansa, he shouldn't have hesitated, but it just wasn't a request he was expecting. Even as he pushes Bran's wheelchair down the sidewalk with Sansa at his side, her heels clacking on the concrete and Rickon's hand clutched in hers, he's still trying to remember when the last time Sansa was even in his room. And he's coming up totally empty.

He assumed that the knock on the door was Arya. She was the most likely culprit to turn up, looking for a movie or an album or with demands that he play some video game with her immediately. Sansa was a wholly unexpected visitor, which is why he didn't bother to flip on a table lamp or pull on a shirt, when he called to her to come in from his stretched out position on his bed.

It was supposed to be Arya, damn it, his little sister, who'd seen him at his worst already and wouldn't think anything of his being sprawled out atop an unmade bed and staring blankly at the ceiling. At least he isn't a slob, because he doubts Sansa's room has anything out of place and it would be just another reason for her to think less of him.

_I'm sorry, did I wake you?_

_No, I'm up. _He cursed under his breath, grabbing for his discarded t-shirt and tugging it over his head. _Sorry_.

Her face said that she didn't quite understand what he was sorry about and maybe he didn't either, but something about the whole scenario made him jumpy. Probably he should talk to his counselor about it if having Robb's sister turn up in his room is enough to set him on edge. It's just Sansa Stark for Christ's sake.

He ends up reminding himself of that several times on their walk to the park, as he stumbles for things to say to her. Thankfully, she does most of the work, filling the silences with chatter that's cheerful and pleasant and easy enough to fall into. There's even this game she comes up with for the boys about counting how many red cars they see along 5th Avenue, which is oddly calming, considering he's hyper vigilant about cars anyway ever since he came home from Afghanistan. He plays along in his head, catches a few cars that the boys miss, and feels a little less crazy. The red car game works better than the breathing exercises that only get the job done half the time, which are pretty shitty odds.

The park doesn't turn out too bad either. The East 72nd Street playground is the closest to their townhouse, but for years now they've made it a habit to make the trek the accessibility playground across from Mt. Sinai, so Bran doesn't just have to sit and watch all the other kids. Jon's been along on enough of these family trips to the park that he's familiar with the area and doesn't spend too much time examining it with a soldier's eye, assessing every blind corner around every tunnel for something sinister. He can just be a kid or at least act like one for a few minutes. He runs after Bran and Rickon, as they fly up and down the wheelchair ramps, making them whoop and holler like a pair of banshees. It feels pretty damn good being with his brothers, getting out in the sun, doing something other than getting stuck in his thoughts. Exercise is definitely good, he thinks, as he feels the blood pumping through his veins and his chest inflating with oxygen. Doing sit ups in his room maybe isn't cutting it. His counselor might be right that finding a physical outlet would be good for him.

But it's hot out—too hot for his black t-shirt and jeans—so it's a relief when he sees Sansa make her way over to a bench with her big sunglasses pushed back on her head, because it gives him an excuse to do the same. He tells the boys where they'll be sitting and goes over to her. When he sits beside her with one leg stuck out and brushes back the hair that flops into his line of sight, he's still breathing harder than normal.

"All worn out?" she asks with a little smirk.

"Hot."

"You might not want to wear jeans next time." Obviously. "Or would that ruin your cred, cool guy?"

"Right. Cool."

"Sun's strong today," she says and then startles slightly, grabbing for her purse.

She's digging in it for something, when she calls out to the boys, motioning them over. Rickon looks like he's going to ignore her, so Jon waves him in with a frown, despite the fact that he has no idea what it is Sansa intends on doing with the small white bottle with silver writing on it that she has pulled from her purse and uncapped.

"Come here," she beckons to Rickon first, who looks like he's about to dance right out of his skin in his eagerness to get back to the playground.

"I don't want it," he whines.

"You know the rules."

As she squeezes the stuff onto the tip of her finger, he realizes its SPF, although it doesn't look like the thick drugstore kind.

"Well, it looks like I don't," Jon says. "Do you always have that in your purse?"

It's such a mom thing that he can't help but smile. Do twenty year old girls really worry about stuff like this? Ygritte was as pale as Sansa and covered in freckles. She obviously didn't care.

"Yes," she says, smearing the liquid over the bridge of Rickon's little snub nose. "This Irish skin of ours doesn't like the sun. I should have put it on them before we left," she says, rubbing another blob into Rickon's outstretched forearm. "You didn't remind me," she says, squinting her eyes and pursing her lips at her youngest brother. She gives his arm a tug. "Trickster."

He receives all this attention and faux reproach with a toothy smile. Rickon's not usually so complacent, but Jon suspects he just wants to get this over with so he can run back out onto the playground.

"There you go," she says, finishing with Rickon and leaning forward to give Bran the same quick treatment.

Bran wrinkles his nose, as she attempts to dab it on his cheek. "It smells like a girl."

"Stop wriggling. I forgot your lotion at the house. This is what I've got."

Bran looks pretty miserable about the prospect, so Jon offers him the only consolation he can come up with. "Girls smell nice."

"I'm glad you think so. You're next," Sansa says with a quick wink over her shoulder at him.

The suggestion makes Bran laugh and stop squirming away from her hand in his chair long enough for her to finish. It's not as thorough a job as she did on Rickon, but she pulls a face at him and sends him on his way with a dismissive wave of her hands and then sets to work on herself, tipping a little more lotion into her hands.

"Don't worry," she assures him. "I won't slather you up." He can feel himself flushing, as he pictures Sansa doing exactly that. "Although, you know where to find it the next time you find yourself wanting to smell like a girl."

He coughs. "Thanks."

"Anytime. Just don't let me forget the cheap stuff the next time we take the boys out. This costs a small fortune."

Next time. That's the second time she's said that today, but this is the first time he's ever taken the boys anywhere alone with Sansa. Meanwhile, she's already planning a next time. Either she's trying to help out her mother or Osha and could use another hand herself or her asking him to join her means she thinks he's a bit pathetic and is looking for an excuse to include him in stuff. Yeah, it wouldn't be an unreasonable assessment. He is a little pathetic holed up in the basement, staring up at the ceiling in the dark—Christ, why couldn't it have been Arya?

Her hand swipes up over her forearm, and he looks away out over the playground, watching as Bran pushes himself through one of the wider tunnels, his screams echoing inside.

"We should rent a boat next time."

"A boat with those two monkeys?" he asks, pointing at their combined antics.

"Afraid to get wet?" she says, pausing in her application to nudge him in the side with her elbow.

"Of sinking like the Titanic, maybe."

"No, that would be bad, but you and I could go. They rent them at Loeb Boathouse. Have you ever done it?"

"No." It's kind of a couple's thing, he always assumed.

"Me either. We should try to do lots of new things before the summer is over. Make a list and just check them off as we go. It feels really good to check something off a list."

This is starting to feel like a campaign to get him out of the house. "Did your father talk to you about me?" It's a humiliating prospect.

She puts the cap back on her lotion, cocking a brow at him. "Daddy and I rarely have heart to hearts. Why, should he have?"

He fidgets, his fingers twitching against his jeans, feeling ridiculous.

"Forget it." There's no alteration to her face, but he can tell by the way she tears her eyes from his that she's misunderstood. "I had a talk with your dad this morning and…"

She fills in the silence, politely ignoring his explanation that is going nowhere. "Okay."

"I'll do it. I'm not promising I'll know how to row it though." And her skinny arms don't look like they'll be much help.

Her whole body language shifts, as she sits forward and hitches her shoulders up, a motion mirrored by the upward tick of her facial muscles.

"I don't have a clue either. Maybe we can waste an entire day, floating around like a pair of rubes."

Maybe she's right. Maybe he does need to just go out and do something, anything to try to fill up his hours as much as humanly possible, so he's not constantly, obsessively thinking and worrying and hating himself. It's working so far. He hasn't had one dark thought since Sansa ushered them through the doors of the house and down the steps.

"Sounds good."

It does. Especially if it makes him feel like he does right now.

"Careful, please," she yells, as Rickon executes a particularly daredevil leap off a ramp.

"What are you reading?" he asks, spying a book peeking out of her purse, as she drops the SPF bottle inside.

"_Looking for Alaska_."

"What's it about?"

"Uh, depressing teen stuff. I'm sort of working my way through his novels," she says, showing him the cover. "And they're all a little depressing so far. I'm just trying to read more. I kind of stopped for a while. You know, because I was just _so_ busy." She rolls her eyes at herself. "Little Miss Social."

She's not exactly Miss Social anymore. He hasn't seen any of her friends at the house, and he doesn't think she's gone out since she went to the club with her friend Margaery and what's his name, Margaery's brother. She didn't come down for breakfast the next day even though she wasn't out that late. She got in pretty early, considering. He waited up to listen for the front door, which was easy enough, since it echoes right above his bed. Maybe her night out didn't go exactly as she'd hoped it would.

"I could recommend some books to you, unless you only want to read depressing teen stuff," he says, taking the book from her and flipping it over.

"What would you recommend? Depressing adult stuff?"

He gives her a sidelong look "Would that be so awful? You're not a teen anymore."

Sometimes he forgets. All of the Stark kids seem stuck at the age he left them and went off a soldier to war. But she definitely is not a teen anymore. More than the flip of the calendar separates her from her teen years. She's clearly matured in the past year. Loss has a way of doing that.

"I know that, but that doesn't mean I want to read your type of books."

"My type. What is my type?"

She crosses one leg over the other, letting her foot bounce. "More brooding, less cute boys?"

He hands her back the book. "Yeah, that pretty much sums them up."

He's read _A Farewell to Arms_ twice since getting home and he hates it as much as he loves it. He read it in boarding school before he could even understand the bleakness of a man broken by war. It means something different to him now, but she's not wrong. Sometimes he reads it hoping the ending will be different and it will be a harbinger of things maybe turning out differently for him. Sansa might write the back cover: more brooding, less cute boys.

If pressed, however, he can probably come up with some depressing books that still have a cute boy or two. "_The Great Gatsby_."

"Saw the movie. Leo's cute."

He groans.

She bites her lip. "You're way too easy to tease. No, I read it in high school. Or the CliffsNotes maybe."

He clutches his chest. "Twist the knife."

"Our tastes are not exactly copasetic. Never have been."

That is mostly true. They certainly haven't ever been close and part of that has to do with how different they are, but maybe it also was just bad timing. She was younger, when he joined the Stark family, but not young enough that he could take care of her, stepping into the role of big brother effortlessly the way he did with the new baby. Sansa had been for some time Robb's only sibling, his little sister, and when he became Robb's friend, that pretty much eliminated any possibility that he and Sansa could share a friendship. Funny thing about guys: they don't generally like for you to pal around with their sisters.

"I don't know," he says leaning back into the bench and draping one arm over its back, watching Rickon scamper over a tunnel instead of through it. "When you went through that _Little Mermaid_ phase, I think I watched her comb her hair with a fork at least one hundred times. It wasn't so bad."

She laughs, her head tipping back, exposing the curve of her pale neck. "What do mean _phase_? I still happen to think that's a really excellent movie. She's an inspirational heroine for us redheads."

_Former_ redheads.

He's about to say _an Oscar caliber performance_, when he hears a gunshot. He's only half aware of the world around him, as he curls forward, tucking his head between his knees and pressing his hands over his ears, trying to stop the assault of sound and light that is triggered in his brain. It's relentless. Gritting his teeth, he tries to master it. It's a drain he's circling, fighting not to succumb to the pull. Jon? Jon? Jon? His name floats to him from far away like the whisper of the wind through the leaves. He tries counting back from ten, tries to lift his head to look at his surroundings and count kids, tries to focus on the smell of mulch and grass to remind himself that they're at a playground. It wasn't a gunshot. He's not back there. He rocks back and forth, like a damn nut job, but he can't help himself, because the counting isn't working.

At first he's barely aware of her hand on his arm, stilling his movements, but then he feels her rubbing his back, as she whispers his name. She's freaked out, he can tell by the tone of her voice, as she pushes back his hair and bends down low enough that he can feel her breath on his cheek. He knows he's sweating like a pig, but all he can do is breathe through his flared nostrils, trying to slow his heart rate. He can't warn her not to touch him, because he's a sweaty mess.

There's another voice, a little boy's, young enough to be still girlish, added to the chorus of disembodied sounds. It must be Rickon or Bran or both. Everything is still too foggy—a rush of blood through his veins and her touch and popping lights behind his eyelids—to be certain.

He only catches snippets. "All right…brother's fine…hot…go back… watching you."

She rubs slow circles on his back. He focuses on the soft pressure, biting the inside of his cheek to bring focus to the pain. He should have warned her. He shouldn't have agreed to come here with a world of triggers waiting to hurl him into an episode without telling her what she was potentially getting herself into. She's never seen one. They're terrifying to him and they have to be nearly as bad for the person watching.

"Jon, honey? You are okay, aren't you?"

He breathes out hard, forcing himself to sit upright. He squints into the sun, his chest rising and falling too fast, every muscle bunched tight. Grass, mulch, kids playing, fifteen of them, nope, sixteen with one in the tunnel, Sansa's hand on his shoulder, her thumb worrying the seam of his t-shirt, the smell of her floral shampoo, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. One. One. One. One.

Fuck.

When he opens his mouth to apologize, to assure her that he's not about to kill her or somebody else, which is what some people must think when they hear, Veteran, PTSD, all that comes out is a string of curses in an exhausted rush. It's filthy shit he'd normally never say in front of her or any other woman, and he scrubs his face when his mouth finally stops, trying to work back to who he is beneath this wreck of a person.

"What _was_ that?" he asks.

"The noise? A car on 5th Avenue. Backfiring, I guess."

A car. A stupid, fucking car. "God, I'm a real head case."

"No, no you're totally fine, but you frightened me a little bit."

He swallows hard and makes himself look at her, her face pinched together, her eyes blinking, looking like she's on the verge of tears. "I wouldn't have hurt you."

"I know. I was frightened _for_ you."

"I'm okay."

"Of course you are," she says firmly with a little nod. "It's over, right?"

All he can manage is a jerk of his head in response. Hopefully it's over. It feels like it is. He knows where he is. She's here. The boys are just a few feet away. None of them have been shot.

Her fingers brush the sweaty curls at the back of his neck, lifting them away, and he feels his shoulders settle by an inch.

"Arya said they were bad. I mean, that was an episode, right?"

"Yeah."

Not even a particularly bad one. He didn't lose his touch with reality entirely. But even these half assed episodes are enough to drain him. It feels as if there's a thundercloud developing between his eyes—a tension headache.

"I need a shower." And a dark room.

"Do you need to leave? We can go."

She stops touching him to reach for her purse, and his eyes track her hand's movement, wishing he'd kept his mouth shut. Her hand was tethering him to this place, so he doesn't completely disappear. His counselor says he needs to find things that ground him by using his senses—bite a lemon, hold onto a cube of ice, concentrate on colors around him, eat a strong peppermint, listen to music, all stupid little mind tricks—when the fuzziness starts creeping in, which signals an oncoming episode. All those tricks made him feel nuts, but with her hand on him, he understood what the counselor means about letting other people help ground you.

"Give me a second. I can't get up just yet."

"It's okay. There's no rush. The boys are having fun," she says, waving at Rickon with a fake smile that drops as soon as he hops in the other direction with a stick in his hand like a vaguely threatening Easter Bunny. "We'll leave when we're all good and ready."

Her hand covers his. He's gripping his knee hard enough to bruise, but he eases up and lets her work her fingers between his.

"I thought maybe you didn't have them anymore."

Her voice is soothing and sympathetic without sounding quite like she pities him.

"They're not as bad as they were, but I have triggers. I should have warned you."

She shakes off his apology with a frustrated little humming noise. "Triggers. Like noises? Is it why you hang out in your room?"

He was worried only minutes ago about her seeing him in his room, looking like some depressive shut-in, and now a car backfiring has him shaking like a Chihuahua. Puts things in perspective on the scale of how much mortification he can stomach.

"The city can be a bit much."

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

This is exactly what he doesn't want. People thinking they have to walk on eggshells around him, alter their lives to fit his craziness. He pinches the bridge of his nose. If the headache gets too bad, there's a chance he might puke. That would be a real cherry on top of the sundae.

"Don't be. It's part of getting better, exposing myself to it, dealing with it."

It just so happens that the exposure therapy can turn into a brutally embarrassing scenario like today has.

"Headache?" she asks, poking around in her purse kind of awkwardly with her left hand until she retrieves a little travel size bottle of Advil. "Can you take them dry?"

"I'm good at taking pills," he assures her flatly, as he lets go to work the childproof cap and tap two into his palm.

He tosses them back, swallows. It feels like they're stuck and he coughs twice.

"What else you got in there, Mary Poppins?" he asks, trying to make the muscles around his mouth smile.

She's got Advil and sunscreen and maybe she stores her gentle manner in there too. Practically perfect in every way.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" she asks, grabbing his hand again and pulling it into her lap. "A girl's purse is top secret."

He stares at their clasped hands. Anyone walking by would think they were a couple. Sansa's naturally affectionate. She has a hug for everyone. She's always touching people, while she talks, while she listens. That's all this is, Sansa's usual way—directed at him in a way he's unaccustomed to—but if you didn't know that about her, you might get the wrong idea and think they were just another couple in the park. He's only been part of a couple once. Another redhead, what feels like a lifetime ago, and a really sad ending. Nothing like Disney's _The Little Mermaid_.

"What are they like? The episodes?"

He exhales, digging the toe of his sneaker into the packed dirt beneath their bench. "You sure you want to hear about it?"

He hates recounting them with his counselor. It's so clinical, when what he's going through feels anything but rational. But who else is there to talk to? Arya's just a kid and he can't add to Ned's burdens.

"I do, unless you don't want to talk about it."

He doesn't usually, but he thinks maybe Sansa understands more than she lets on, like her frothy sweetness is just the surface, waiting to be scratched.

"They're like I'm there again, reliving it."

She leans into him, her bare shoulder pressing into his. He stares down at the skirt of her dress beneath their hands, counting the red and white sailboats that sail across the blue of the cotton fabric. Something like the boat she probably isn't going to want to rent with him anymore after seeing how poorly an outing with him can turn out. It wasn't even his idea to row a boat around a little lake, but the thought that she won't offer again, makes him scrunch his eyes up tight, fighting off irrational disappointment.

"Sometimes at night I can't sleep thinking about how horrible it must have been for you and Robb, while I was screwing around at school."

He sniffs and rubs the back of his right hand under his nose. "Don't beat yourself up about that. That's where you belong—at school with your friends."

"Friends," she says with an exaggerated lilt to her voice. "Well, I'm not going back. I mean, I'm going to take a semester off."

He glances at her and sees the way she's biting the corner of her lip, like she's testing the reaction that statement elicits for the first time. She can't have told her parents yet. Catelyn's been rushing around, buying everyone their back to school supplies and he saw stuff for Sansa on the list clipped to the frig. That's probably a conversation he'd be dreading too if he was in Sansa's shoes, which happen to be pretty little red wooden heels that are totally not playground friendly.

"I need time." Her eyes scan the playground, her fingers shifting against his. "We all just need time."

He hopes there's some truth to that, although the old saying about time and wounds doesn't feel particularly accurate. As the months pass, his wounds feel less raw, but they still bother him like a crusted scab that he can't help but scratch, and he can't imagine it ever being any different. Not when these episodes break them open again and again.

"That seems reasonable—a little time off. Just don't spend it beating yourself up.

"You're going to tell me you don't?"

"Oh, I'm a pro at it." His throat tightens. "I got home and felt guilty that I was here and Robb was over there." He felt guilty that his friends and Ygritte were dead and he was in New York, eating Sansa's mom's home cooked meals, watching television in the damn air conditioning too. "Still do." He shrugs. "I should have been with him."

She rests her head on his shoulder. "I meant it, you know."

"What?"

"I'm glad you're here. I'm glad you're with me, and we can remember him together."

His chest clenches.

She talks. She reminisces. She makes him laugh the way Robb used to, recounting things she remembers from when he and Robb would come home from boarding school, dragging back smelly laundry and purposefully forgetting their books. The _I can conquer the world _confidence that Robb had even in high school. His easy way with people, and how sometimes he still managed to make noteworthy mistakes. Particularly with girls.

The minutes stretch on, and when she asks again, softly, "You wanna go?" he realizes he doesn't, not quite yet.

At some point with her weight against him and her fingers toying with his, while they watched his brothers work on wearing themselves completely out under the afternoon sun and he listened to her talk happily about her brother, he stopped wishing he was in his room with the lights out, stopped thinking about rocking himself back and forth until he fell asleep. He'll sleep later. Right now they're supposed to be enjoying themselves at the park. He's tired and his head is throbbing, but they're all together and it's okay.

"You hungry?" She barely touched her breakfast. She's got to be. "Because ice cream sounds really good."

She sits upright and adjusts the sunglasses atop her head. "The boys are never going to turn down ice cream."

"Are you? My treat."

"Well, in that case," she says with a slow smile. "I'm going to have to get sprinkles."

It might be better than okay before the day's over, and that's all right. None of them should have to feel guilty about that.

* * *

**Notes**: New locations in this chapter. So, there's a peek at Jon's room and the playground in Central Park they go to on my tumblr, which can be found under the 'modern au' tag. I thought it went without saying, but there seems to have been some confusion, so I'll just add that I don't actually style these inspiration pictures. I was looking for a bedroom that looked like it could be in a basement, potentially have been a home theater once upon a time, and was masculine and had a couple elements of Jon's style. That doesn't mean his room wouldn't have any personal items in it. You just have to imagine those yourself. ;)


	11. Chapter 10: Dany

**Summary**: Dany's almost certain her extravagant charity event will not only be the best of the year, but also genuinely help those in need.

**Notes**: Are you following Dany on tumblr (princessofapalacecracked)?

* * *

Chapter Ten: Dany

Dany stops halfway down the Step and Repeat, makes a joke for the paparazzi, pops a hip out, and waits for the flashes. Her brother is four steps behind her, looking bored and maybe even a little pissed off with his hands in his pockets and his mouth a thin, flat line. Couldn't he at least pretend for the photogs? Yes, they argued in the limo, but it's always the same old argument.

He might refuse to be professional about this, but she can't afford to be as petty. Right now she needs to focus on her smile, so the pictures in tomorrow's papers and blogs will be pretty enough to rise to the top, drawing attention to her charity to help prevent sex trafficking of young girls in developing countries. The donations they collect tonight will be used to purchase bicycles for at risk girls, so they can ride to school or work, better themselves and make money for their families, all to help keep them safe. She's been planning this event for months, every detail, right down to the twinkling lights hung in the dark blue ceiling overhead, looking like a starry night sky over the desert—a desert with champagne and dessert always close at hand.

And it was well worth the effort, because Meereen looks beautiful, she thinks, as she steps through the arched doorway, and peers around. At the back of the vaulted room is the pyramid, cut from copper and embossed to look as if it was constructed brick by brick like the step pyramids in Central America. The lights bounce off of it, creating just the effect she'd hoped for when she dreamt it up. The lights and the decorations and the undercurrent of exotic music with its heavy beat are bound to impress, bound to draw more donations.

She doesn't have long to admire her work and imagine all the smiling faces of the anonymous girls she'll be helping, when a hand closes tightly around her elbow and jerks, spinning her dangerously in her heels to the side.

"We're not done." There's nothing vague about the menace in Viserys' face now that there's no camera pointed at them. His pale eyes narrow at her, his lip curls, and his fingers dig painfully into her bare arm. "I need that money. I need you to give me your check."

Dany's done that before, countless times: given her brother her monthly allowance check from her parents' estate, because he'd spent all of his. She doesn't know how he manages to spend it so quickly every month, sometimes before he's even been given the check, but she has her suspicions he's gambling it away on risky ventures and shady people in a desperate attempt to reclaim imagined past glories. He's always trying to impress someone, trying to prove the Targaryens are better than everyone else. It doesn't look good on him.

"I can't this month. I told you, I spent this month's check on the event."

"On this?" he asks, gesturing towards the crowded room with a sneer, as if it isn't the most beautiful charity event of the year.

"Yes, on this."

Her monthly check and more. This was quite the expensive venture. Everything sparkles in gold. It was her number one requisite when meeting with the party planner. Even the food will be gold, Missy assured her. It is, she realizes, as a waiter comes by with a round tray of tiny chocolate cups filled with raspberry crème topped with a flake of edible gold.

"Have a drink or two and find some girls to talk to, why don't you," she says, picking one of the chocolate confections off the tray.

He snorts. "I'm never going to find an interesting girl to talk to at this pathetic party of yours."

She nibbles at the chocolate, the tartness of the raspberry making her taste buds water. "Didn't know they had to be interesting." His thumb digs harder into her flesh, and she tugs, surreptitiously trying to free herself from his painful grasp, but his grip it too tight. She opens her eyes wider. "Let go of me, Viserys. Right now."

He releases her. "I've got bigger things to worry about than sex slaves a world away. You should too."

Her voice rises, but the music of the room keeps anyone from noticing the disagreement brewing between her and her brother. "Tell me what I should be worried about. What is so damn important? Quickly. I have guests to meet."

"Me."

Of course. Viserys thinks he's the center of the universe. "Right, well, I think you'll have to just make do for the time being, because as I told you, I spent this month's money on renting Meereen. You'll have to wait for your next check just like I'll have to wait for mine."

"I can't wait. This is serious. If something happens to me…" he begins.

She's actually a little worried by the way his posture changes, the way he looks as if he might crumple, when the rest of the words dry up in his mouth and his brows draw together. He's irresponsible and makes terrible choices, but he's her brother and she loves him. It's always been the two of them, and if that means she has to bail him out of one bad business move after another, then that's what she has to do. She's about to reach out to brush back his pale blond hair and tell him they should have lunch tomorrow, talk about it, and she'll help him figure something out, when she senses someone behind her. Viserys' face closes, his shoulders square, looking like an affronted prince.

"Barristan."

Her brother does not sound happy to see their uncle, but Dany is. She looks up over her shoulder and smiles. Her uncle always looks very dashing, when he's dressed formally, his white hair set off by the dark of his suit.

"Viserys," their uncle says with a nod to her brother. "Dany, your guests are waiting for you."

"He's trying to politely say that we're late. You know how she is. She took forever to get ready," Viserys says, rolling his eyes.

It did take her longer than usual. She only wanted to look the part, and explaining to her hair and makeup artist, Irri, just how she wanted things done was something of a challenge given the alteration in her normal look. Her one shouldered, gossamer gown in ever darker shades of gold from one layer to the next is pinned at the shoulder with a large dragon brooch with ruby eyes—one of the pieces that belonged to her mother that was given to her under the terms of the estate when she turned twenty-one. She's perfectly comfortable in it, since it isn't so different from her usual party attire, but the rest of her look is a little daring. She chose a crown of braids for her hair and rather dramatic cat eyes, thinking they fit the mood she was hoping to create, and then worried whether she had gone too far. Viserys said he could probably sell her on the street corner.

_You hit the nail on the head if you're attempting to look like an actual sex slave_.

"Shall we go see Tyrion Lannister?"

"One of them came?" she says, ending on a growl of frustration.

"Not only came. I believe he's written your foundation a rather sizable check tonight."

Viserys doesn't care about this or any of her charities, so at the first sign that things might turn into work, he disappears into the crowd, his blond head bobbing bright under the lights until she can't see him any longer. She's not eager to go to work either, and she suppresses a sigh at the thought of being dragged over to make chit chat with one of the Lannisters. They're not her favorite people in the world. She can't stand what Baratheon Industries stands for or the crimes that have been perpetrated by their government against civilians thanks to Baratheon tech. The Lannisters are literally and figuratively in bed with then. They fund their every despicable move, as far as she can tell, while smiling beautifully from the covers of shiny tabloids and newspapers.

She only sent an invitation to the Lannister offices, because she thought they might mail her a donation out of social obligation. She didn't imagine they'd show their faces at her event, where she would have to smile and thank them. There are people she added to the list tonight not so much for their fat wallets or the ability to cut impressive checks but for their other praiseworthy attributes, whom she would much rather seek out. Daario should be here somewhere. It shouldn't be hard to pick out his blue hair and tattooed sleeves in this staid crowd.

"A sizable donation?" she asks, slipping her arm through her uncle's.

"Very sizable."

"Color me shocked."

"I wouldn't say that exactly that when you speak with him," her uncle says, bending down to murmur his suggestion in her ear.

And she doesn't. Dany shakes Tyrion's hand, is introduced to his petite date, who watches them with big, dark eyes, and launches into her speech about how much good his donation is going to do and how very thankful she is for it. She's on her best behavior, smiling brightly, pretending not to loathe the very sight of him, but the same can't be said for Tyrion. Before he ever opens his mouth, she suspects she won't like what he has to say based on the grin he wears between sips of champagne. There's a lot going on behind that smile, but she's not sure she wants him to give voice to it.

Eventually her elaboration on the joys of bike ownership end, however, and he's given the opportunity to speak. "I was happy to make the donation, Ms. Targaryen."

"Please, call me Dany."

"Happy to make the donation, _Dany_. But I'm not certain how much it's actually going to help these unfortunate young women."

Dany frowns. Her various charitable endeavors aren't a screen for bloated salaries and lavish parties, although she knows there are charities that function for that purpose. She pays the bills out of her share of her parents' estate, so that all donations go directly to those who need them.

"No, I assure you that it will. I paid for the hospitality you've enjoyed tonight," she says with a nod towards the champagne in his hand. "All donations from our generous contributors will go directly to buying bicycles…"

"Oh, no," he says, waving one hand. "I understand the process. The hang up I have is that I suspect buying these women bicycles isn't the best way to go about solving the problem of sex slavery. How are you going to ensure that these bikes you're sending them will remain in the possession of the women? Lock them to their ankles?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well, if their fathers or brothers are selling them into sex slavery, what will stop them from taking the bicycles and using them for their own purposes _and_ selling the women into slavery? They might take a fancy to those bikes, and I can't think of one way we could prevent them from taking them. Can you?" He shrugs one shoulder and pops gold painted cordial into his mouth that his date has been holding on a black napkin for him. Speaking around the chocolate, he continues, "It's like sending shoes to orphans. Well intentioned, but useless."

Dany has done that too, and she slept better at night, thinking of those orphans with new sneakers.

She can feel the heat rising in her cheeks, and her uncle attempts to change the topic, mumbling something about postseason baseball, as he reaches for a glass of champagne from a waiter's tray and passes it to her. She grips the stem too tightly and attempts a smile.

The music changes and she's forced to raise her voice to be heard over it, which is fine, because she feels rather like yelling. "No, that's all right. Let Mr. Lannister say what he thinks. It's an interesting opinion."

"An informed opinion," Tyrion says, grinning back at her.

They both grin at her, Tyrion and his black haired date, like a pair of freshly carved jack-o'-lanterns. The woman looks as pleased by Tyrion's rudeness as he is. Dany's filled with hatred for them both, coming here to ruin her evening, to mock her efforts.

"Are you saying that my opinion, that my _charity_ is uninformed?"

"I'm saying that you don't know how to run a charity."

"And yet, you just made a donation to it," she says, attempting to keep her voice light, as she tips her champagne flute back, swallowing half the glass in the process.

"Yes, because if you ever decide you want someone to assist you, who actually knows how to manage your money properly, perhaps my little contribution will be a reminder to you that I'm ready and willing."

Dany nearly chokes, the bubbles burning the back of her throat. "What do you know about managing a charity?"

"Obviously you're familiar with Lannister Mercantile."

"Oh, yes. The business your father built, so that you and your spoiled brother can spend the profits?" she says through a fake smile.

"That's the one. We both know a little something about spoiled brothers, don't we?" he responds with a lift of his flute in a mock toast.

She'd like nothing more than to toss her drink in his face, when she feels her uncle's hand press between her shoulder blades, as he clears his throat. "Would you excuse us? There are other guests we should greet."

"Thank you again," she grits out, turning her back on Tyrion and his pretty date.

Her nostrils flare and she closes her eyes for a half beat. She'd love to give back his filthy donation, but the girls need it. He's wrong. They need those bicycles. Those bikes are going to change their lives and save them from a life of slavery.

Her uncle is trying to guide her through the crowd towards some other important person, whose hand needs to be pressed, but Dany can't stomach it. She shrugs free of him, darting off to the side. Waving hello and kissing people's cheeks, she slide by one after another attendee. Her mind is set on Daario, but it's another big hand that stops her advance through the crowd.

"Evening, princess."

Jorah Mormont was another name she added to tonight's invitation list without any expectation of a substantial donation. Having not been by her uncle's offices in the past few weeks, there had been no opportunity to run into him after their shared cab ride, but she thought he'd contact her, try to initiate something, so he could do more than undress her with his eyes. Sometimes she imagined she would say no if he did call and ask her out and sometimes she pictured herself saying yes. Why not? There have been half a dozen dates since she last saw him, two of them with Daario, but she's not serious with anyone at the moment. There's no reason she couldn't entertain the possibility of a date with Jorah other than his not being particularly handsome.

But she didn't get the chance to accept or reject him. It shouldn't have been too hard for him to get her contact info, given his position at Barristan & Rakharo, but she'd never heard anything from him. It was his silence as much as the blatant interest he demonstrated in the cab that made her add his name to the event list.

"Sir Bear." His hand closes around her arm as she leans forward to kiss him on both cheeks. "You see, I haven't forgotten."

"Neither have I. You made me curious, and I looked up the Mormont house motto."

"Yes, what is it that I have to fear from House Mormont?"

"Nothing. It's Here We Stand."

She sips the last of her champagne and considers him, tilting her head. "Oh, that's very good."

"Is it?"

"Yes. Loyalty and courage. It's what I value most in my guards. My knight in shining armor." She pats his chest. He's solid enough. Not the most handsome, but fit, just as she remembered him being. "Or at least a suit."

"My best," he says with a quirk of his mouth.

That might be the case, but she wonders whether he wouldn't look better out of his suit than in it.

"It's a good suit, but is it suitable for doing battle? I might have someone I need you to dispatch for me," she says, wrinkling her nose at the thought of how Tyrion and his date stared at her, when he announced she didn't know what she was doing.

"It's a little constricting, but I can always take off the coat," he says, taking the empty champagne flute from her and depositing it on a round bar height cocktail table draped in black that is within his reach. "Who is it I'm supposed to challenge?"

Dany leans in and rises up on the balls of her feet so no one will hear, gripping his shoulder. "Bring me the head of anyone with the last name Lannister and I'll be thrilled beyond words. They're all beastly."

When he inclines his head to whisper, "And yet you invited them?" he's close enough that his breath stirs the hairs that have pulled free of her braid behind her ear.

The air is pumping hard here at Meereen to keep all these bodies cool. Working a little too hard, since her dress is short and her arms are bare, and suddenly her whole body is alive with goose flesh. The inability to wear a bra with this dress is something of a liability in disguising such things.

"Strictly business. Unlike my invitation to you of course."

"Which was?"

"Strictly pleasure."

He raises one brow. "Are you drunk again?"

She laughs. It's too blunt and a hair rude, but not meanly meant. Maybe they don't teach etiquette in Michigan. "Not at all. Do I look it?"

"No, you look…" he struggles, his eyes lingering suggestively, where the layers of her gown sweep down over the rise of her left breast.

It would be stupid to tell him she's cold.

She knows he appreciates her and that fishing for compliments is gauche, but she turns partly to the side and narrows her eyes at him, wanting to hear some word of praise from him after he disappointed her in not ever seeking her out after their last parting. "Don't you dare say anything other than lovely or beautiful or stunning."

"Those are my choices?"

"Yes.

"Well then, all of those things. But why the threat?"

"Oh, Viserys. My brother. Something he said. It doesn't matter," she says, running her hand along the length of her skirt until her fingertips reach the hem, smiling at the way his eyes track her movements.

"That brother of yours is something of a problem," he observes.

Of course Jorah would know. It can't be a secret around her uncle's offices just how badly Viserys manages his finances or how often he sends his sister in to beg for an advance. At first she wasn't planning on helping her brother, but she's ready to do it again based on that look in his eyes right before their uncle interrupted them.

"You know how brothers are," she says, lightly touching the edge of his jacket sleeve.

"No, I don't."

"Well, they're always a hassle. He's in a bit of a fix apparently. I might have to drop by on Monday to have a chat with my uncle. Fall on his mercy for Viserys' sake. Or maybe you can help me with it?"

She runs her finger around the gold button at the cuff, and he wets his lips, shifting his weight over his feet restlessly. She certainly has his attention.

"Maybe."

"Viserys has some debts he needs to pay, and I spent my monthly allowance, the past few months' allowance actually, on hosting this event. Completely worth it, because it's a really excellent cause." She waits for him to chime in with his agreement, but he merely sticks his hands in his pockets, disrupting the seduction of his jacket. "But it means I can't help him, and he needs an advance."

"Have you ever thought of just letting him fend for himself?"

"He's my brother."

"So, what do you need from me?"

"You might say something to my uncle."

It's a simple task, but not an entirely pleasant one. She knows her uncle will respond poorly to whoever speaks on Viserys' behalf. Jorah probably expects as much, and no one likes to irritate their boss, but she'd like to test if he's as loyal as his house motto would claim.

"He's more liable to say yes to you than he is me."

Dany pouts. "You might be right. But you'll try, won't you? He might appreciate an analyst's point of view. You know my uncle is almost as fond of analysts as I am," she teases.

He looks as if he's going to concede, his eyes softening and little lines showing up at their corners, as he opens his mouth to speak, but he doesn't get a chance. Something hot and wet—a mouth—fits against her neck and she jumps, looking up into blue eyes just a few shades off from the blue of his hair, slicked back against his head with some product that makes it darker than normal.

"Daario. You came."

He's in a t-shirt and jeans and smells like cigarette smoke, but it doesn't matter.

"Told you I probably would," he says, wrapping an arm around her lower back and pulling her hip into him, as he presses another kiss to her temple.

His fingers tug at the fabric of her dress, making it inch up dangerously high, and she wiggles in his grip, cooing his name in mock outrage. Her heart gives a little skip at the intimacy of it all, how familiar and possessive he's acting. It's only been two dates, but maybe this one will stick and she won't lie awake thinking about Drogo anymore.

A hand extends, almost directly between the decreasing space between herself and Daario, interrupting. "Jorah Mormont."

Daario is a little slow to offer his hand back and says nothing in response, but then, he probably expects that Jorah knows him. He's something of a sensation on the New York music and social scene, appearing in blogs of both types thanks in no small part to Daario's good looks. The paps probably took as many photos of him in front of the Step and Repeat as they did her, which isn't such a terrible thing for the visibility of her charity.

"Jorah is an analyst at Barristan & Rakharo." Daario grunts. "Barristan is my uncle," she reminds him. "And this is Daario Naharis of Stormcrows."

"Who or what is Stormcrows?" Jorah asks flatly.

"A band," Dany says without elaborating.

There'd be no point. It's the kind of band Jorah wouldn't have heard of and even Dany finds their music—loud and fast and angry—a little bewildering, despite being closer to their target age group. She isn't much into music herself, but one of their two dates was at a dingy club, where his band was playing, and she did her best to imitate the rest of the thrashing, sweaty crowd. Maybe she shouldn't count it as a proper date: he barely spoke to her and seemed distracted when she came backstage. But it wasn't an entire waste. She invited him to tonight's event while she was there and he did look sexy up on stage in his leather pants with the strobe lights catching on the piercing in his eyebrow and the cords in his arms standing out underneath his tattoos. They're hard to miss. Dany can tell Jorah's staring at the one of the naked woman done in the pinup style. What Jorah can't see is that he has two, one on each forearm. Daario introduced them to her as 'the twins.'

"How long do we need to stick around at this thing, babe?" Daario asks, nuzzling his slightly hooked nose into her braids.

The use of 'we' makes Dany laugh with nervous excitement even as she turns into him and tries to explain that she can't leave.

"I'm the hostess. I have to thank half the people who are here tonight and the other half I need to convince to give me money. It's kind of my job. You understand, right?"

"Yeah, you know, I just thought we could get out of here," he says, tracing the rim of her ear with his finger. "Show me that place of yours."

The idea is more tempting than it should be, given how much effort she's put into this event and how much she believes in her foundation. Or how much she believed in it until Tyrion Lannister spilled poison into her ear. But Daario could probably make her forget all of tonight's disappointments. He looks like he'd know what to do with a girl to help her forget.

"How about you give me an hour? I can make the rounds in an hour and get us out of here before it's too late."

She smoothes her hands over his chest and looks up through her lashes at him, but she can tell by the way he gazes over her head that he's not listening to her, distracted by something and looking distinctly bored. Admittedly, it isn't his scene, but she really has worked hard and the thought that she was ready to hurry away just to please him makes her more than a little frustrated with herself. _Hormones_.

She frowns and pulls her hands back, turning to address Jorah, who can't ever seem to take his eyes off of her—unlike the fickle attention of a musician at the height of his popularity—but he's gone. Somewhere during her bargaining session with Daario, he disappeared. She looks to the left and the right, and spots him, his arms crossed over his chest, pulling tightly against his suit coat, and his brows knit together. The crowd shifts and through the temporary gap she sees him. Tyrion Lannister. Jorah is deeply engrossed in conversation with the one man in this room she doesn't want anyone pleasantly chatting with, and she told Jorah he was hateful, she asked him to serve his head up on a platter.

Disloyal bear.

Her hand finds Daario's and tugs. "You wanna get out of here?"

He smiles down at her, the rise of his lip somehow deliciously wicked. "Your place?"

"Absolutely."

* * *

**Notes**: Tyrion's chapter is up next, where we'll head back to Lannister Mercantile and indulge in a little Cersei and Tyrion sparring. Then Ned, Cersei, Sansa, and Cat.


End file.
